Falling Backwards
by StoofinLunacy
Summary: Kurt Hummel's happily ever after is underway. His family supports him, the Warblers appreciate him, and the boy of his dreams finally kissed him. No need to worry now, right? Klaine
1. Chapter One: Discussion With Fiburt

**Genre: **Romance/Friendship/Smidge(ish) of humor  
><strong>Spoilers: <strong>Episodes up to 2X16. Pretty much AU after that.  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> boy/boy love of the fluffy variety; blatant disregard for spoilers and speculation of future episodes; failed attempts at believable dialogue; and, worst of all, an OC!  
><strong>Summary: <strong>Kurt's happily ever after is underway. His family supports him, the Warblers appreciate him, and the boy of his dreams finally kissed him. No need to worry now, right?

**AN:** This is my first foray into writing in over four years. I've recently found myself unhealthily obsessed with all things Glee, and have come to the conclusion that the only way to get that wondrous show off my brain is to write about it. I am rusty and nervous, mostly because my skills are mediocre and I'm well aware of this fact. However, I have found myself in a quasi-creative mood, and have managed to pull together an outline for a story I think (read: DESPERATELY HOPE) people will enjoy.

This first chapter is … uh … lengthy? The rest will more than likely be less than half the word count of this bad boy. I got a little carried away, strayed from my outline, and thus my version of War and Peace was born. I apologize for any eye strain I may have caused - doubly apologize if you think my story's crap.

Oh, and also: any and all mentions of designer labels was Googled first by yours truly. I have the fashion sense of a demented squirrel. So, if you find yourself scratching your head at an obscure Gucci reference or I mix up Dolce with Dulce, it's not because I'm trying to be artistically ironic. It's because I have no idea what I'm talking about.

And now, without further ado …

* * *

><p><strong><span>Falling Backwards<span>  
><strong>**Chapter One: Discussion With Fiburt**

"All right, gentlemen, listen up."

Burt Hummel and Finn Hudson glanced up, startled, each sporting a vaguely guilty expression. They had been in the middle of sampling the menu for their usual Friday family dinner (Carole had carelessly left her famous chicken noodle casserole unattended while she ran upstairs for something) when Kurt charged into the kitchen from the hallway, his hair impeccable and his expression determined as he came to a stop in front of his father and step-brother.

"Hey, man," Finn greeted him cheerfully, visibly relaxing once he saw it was not his mother who had caught them red-handed. Leftover gravy was congealing on the tip of his chin as he shoveled another heaping forkful of chicken and carrot into his mouth. "Cool outfit."

Kurt took a moment to grimace at the sickening display that was Finn Hudson chewing, then waved the taller boy's compliment away impatiently. "No time for flattery tonight, Finn." Besides, Kurt didn't need to be told he looked fabulous in his clingy ribbed sweater and painted on jeans. He planted his palms flat on the island counter separating him from the other two men and leaned forward; the tassels of his ivory-colored Gucci scarf brushed against the wooden surface as he glared narrowly into first his father's, then step-brother's eyes, not unlike an intimidating detective would with guilty persons under arrest.

"The hour of reckoning is almost upon us," Kurt began without preamble, and he was satisfied to see both Burt and Finn glance at each other perplexingly. "We are officially at defcon two. We are blinking red, people. We need to batten down the hatches, throw our backs against the wind, and prepare for evasive maneuvers -"

"Uh, Kurt?" Burt's tone was two-parts confused, one-part exasperated as he cut across his son's histrionics. "Don't mean to interrupt, kid, but what the hell are you talking about?"

Kurt arched an eyebrow at his father. Surely Burt wasn't being serious? Hadn't he been listening to Kurt at all the past few days? Kurt had been coaching his father and step-brother for this momentous occasion, every night, for an entire week. He had spent hours drawing up diagrams and printing out cue cards for the two men to use as their own personal study tools. Hell, he had even used _hand puppets_, fearing Finn would not be able to truly grasp the potential direness of the situation without the added help of a visual aid.

And now he had come to find that all his time, preparation, and last bottle of FabuDazzle glitter had gone to waste? Typical.

"Need I remind you," Kurt said slowly, taking care to inflect into his tone just how _unamused _he was with Burt's interruption, on the off-chance his dad actually was only joking, "that tonight happens to mark a major rite of passage toward my long and perilous journey in becoming a man?"

Silence met Kurt's declaration from the other side of the counter. Burt was staring at his son with such a lackadaisical expression Kurt wondered whether his father had yet processed what he said. Not to say the man was slow; on the contrary, Burt Hummel was an intelligent man. He was merely a careful thinker, the sort of fellow who would ponder the punch line of a joke for fifteen minutes before deciding it wasn't funny.

Finn, on the other hand, truly was as simple as he looked, and he was currently wearing his patented expression of looking fetchingly confused. "Wait, so does that mean you're going to, like, go out and kill a deer or something?" he asked unsurely, his eyes widening almost comically as he spoke; more than likely because the idea of Kurt Faint-at-the-Sight-of-Snot Hummel hunting was about as ridiculously far-fetched as Brittany Pierce becoming McKinley High's valedictorian next year.

Kurt laughed, shaking his head in haughty amusement. "Finn, Finn, Finn." He really did pity his brother's complete obliviousness sometimes. "Does this outfit make it look like I'm about to go traipsing through the forest on a woodland creature murdering rampage?" He plucked at the expensive material of his V-necked sweater, the color of which happened to be a soft, light gray.

"Dude … you wore Hugo Boss while working on my car last week."

Kurt stood away from the island, hands flying onto his hips in indignation as he huffed, "That outfit was from last season's collection, Finn, and - _that's not even the point_!" He stopped, inhaled a slow breath, and fought the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose.

He had known going into it that having this conversation with Finn and his dad would not be a simple task. Trying to speak to either of them one-on-one was hard enough. Burt was a man of little words, and while he always listened to whatever his son had to say, he spent most of their conversations looking mildly bewildered; and Finn - dear, sweet, simple Finn - had the attention span of an exceptionally dim-witted golden retriever, and often became distracted by loud noises or shiny objects. Like car horns, and Carole's dangly earrings. Couple all that with the fact it was less than fifteen minutes away from dinner and there was the temptation of Carole's delicious cooking sitting right there in front of them, Kurt considered it a miracle he had managed to get the other two men to even look at him in the first place.

But it was important - so, _so _important - that Kurt say what he needed to his dad and step-brother before it was too late, so he drew in a few more calming breaths, reigned in what little self-control he still possessed, and forced a pained smile onto his face.

"Let's try this again, all right?" he said, trying to make his voice sound as pleasant as possible. Keeping Burt and Finn in good moods - thus, less likely to purposely annoy and embarrass him - led a crucial role in Kurt's plans for tonight. He needed to stay cool, calm and collected, and he needed to lay the charm down thickly.

He also needed to speak in as few words as possible, because Burt's eyes kept shifting distractedly between Kurt and the uncovered casserole dish sitting enticingly in front of him, and Finn's features were beginning to slacken as the taller boy fell into his usual pre-dinner lethargy.

It was time for the serious voice.

"In just a short while, a very important dinner guest will be stepping through our front door." Kurt had his hands clasped tightly together in front of him, his tone succinct as he spoke. "As you will probably have realized by now, this is the first time I've ever invited someone over for a Hummel-Hudson Friday Family Dinner -"

"What're you talking about?" Kurt shot his father a reprimanding look for interrupting him a second time, but Burt didn't seem to notice as he continued, "You've had Mercedes over for our Friday night dinners plenty of times."

"Oh, Mercedes doesn't count," Kurt said flippantly. He opened his mouth to continue, but snapped it shut in aggravation when, yet _again_, he was rudely interrupted, this time by Finn.

"But why doesn't she count?"

Not for the first time, Kurt cursed the fairness of his complexion as he felt his face begin to heat up. This was definitely _not _a direction he wanted this important conversation to take. Time was of the essence, and going off on a tangent would only annoy Burt, and hopelessly confuse Finn. "She just doesn't, all right?" he said tersely. "Now, getting back to what I was saying -"

"Is it because we always have to eat tots when she comes over?"

Kurt ground his teeth together impatiently as he turned to his step-brother. "_No, _Finn, it's not because we always have to eat tots when she comes over -"

"It's because she brings her own fork, isn't it?" Burt guessed, indicating his own, which was currently four-prongs-deep in Carole's casserole. "Don't get me wrong, I get a major kick out of Mercedes, but that was pretty weird."

"It has nothing to do with Mercedes' utensils, Dad," Kurt sighed. He paused, then smirked to himself. "Well, at least not her _eating _utensils." He snickered appreciatively at his own joke, but when Burt and Finn just stared at him, clearly stumped, Kurt's laughter petered out awkwardly.

"It's because she's a girl," he clarified; he cleared his throat uncomfortably and resisted the urge to squirm under Burt and Finn's scrutiny. It seemed as though the two men had finally managed to put two and two together and come up with _it's-a-gay-thing_. Clear understanding was beginning to blossom on his father and step-brother's countenances, and Kurt soon found himself regretting having brought the topic up at all.

"So that's why you've been wigging out on us, huh?" Burt Hummel, as usual, was on top form tonight. His father was the only person Kurt knew who could take a ridiculously out-dated word like "wigging" and make it sound completely legitimate in regular conversation. "Because it's a boy who's coming for dinner, and not one of your lady friends."

Kurt could feel his wondrously blemish-free cheeks start to burn, damn them, but he kept his voice as dignified as possible as he lifted his chin and said primly, "That's the gist of it, yes."

A lopsided grin was beginning to pull at a corner of Finn's mouth as he added, eyebrows waggling in a way that made Kurt want to throw something at him, "You want to impress Blaine, huh dude?"

Kurt would set fire to his Coach messenger bag before ever admitting it, but the mere mention of that name had his stomach performing giddy flip-flops. Yes, it was safe to say Kurt wanted to impress his warbling, dapper new leading man. Blaine Anderson was, after all, so gorgeous it should be illegal, what with his perfectly coiffed Gregory Peck-esque hairstyle, warm brown eyes, and strong masculine features. But stunning good looks aside, there was a lot more to Warbler Blaine that made him so irresistible to Kurt. Disregarding Blaine's truly unimaginative taste in music, there wasn't much about the boy that Kurt didn't often find himself drooling over. He was everything a well-bred gentleman should be: he was courteous, generous, intelligent, funny, and endearing with every fiber of his character. With his crinkly eyes and high-wattage smile, his contagious laughter, his habit of biting on the ends of pencils when he was concentrating, the way his face spasmed whenever he hit a high note while singing, and - _sweet grilled Cheesus, stop it now, Kurt, before your head explodes and you coat the entire kitchen with lovesick goo!_

Kurt came back to the present with a small shake, and felt himself flush scarlet at the concerned looks he saw his father and step-brother directing his way. He had zoned out into Blaine-Land again, a pesky, recurring habit that always seemed to happen at the most inopportune times for Kurt. During lectures at Dalton, in the middle of conversations with friends, at the end of Project Runway, and … dear Gaga, was it really so close to five o'clock already? His mouth dropped open in horror when he noticed the positions of the hands on the wall clock above Burt's and Finn's heads. If Blaine showed up on time (and he would, Blaine had been nothing less than perfectly punctual since Kurt had met him) then Kurt had less than five minutes until the highly anticipated Hudmel-Family-Plus-One Dinner Extravaganza began.

Just how long had he been stuck in his Blaine-induced stupor, anyway?

Burt and Finn were still huddled around the kitchen island, staring at Kurt. The casserole in front of them seemed to be mostly intact, and Kurt took that to mean he hadn't completely lost the other two's attention just yet.

"So, where was I?" Did his voice always sound that breathy and flustered whenever he thought about Blaine? How embarrassing. "To answer your question, Finn, yes I am trying to impress Blaine. It is, after all, the first time my family will be properly introduced to my - to him." Burt's countenance darkened suspiciously at Kurt's near-slip. Kurt studiously ignored him. "I don't think I have to tell you just how important it is that this evening goes well. Blaine's friendship -" Burt and Finn shared another, significant glance - "means a lot to me, and while so far your interactions with him have been less than …" Kurt struggled to find a suitable word, "… _warm_ -"

"Dude, I _told _you I didn't mean to egg Blaine's car," Finn interjected adamantly, gesticulating in protestation with his fork. A pea flung off one of the prongs and sailed past Kurt's right ear. "It was an accident. I had no idea Blaine even went to that coffee shop. It's not my fault his car looks so much like Karofsky's -"

"Finn, I'm not even going to pretend to understand how you managed to mix up Karofsky's pick-up with Blaine's Volvo," Kurt said, pressing a hand briefly against his eyes. He could feel a headache beginning to form. "They're not even the same color."

Finn did not seem to have a response to that.

"Well, _I've _been nothing but friendly with what's-his-face," Burt proclaimed loudly. Kurt dropped his hand and _looked _at his father. "What? _What_? When have I ever been anything but respectful of your guys' friendship?" Kurt's brow lifted sardonically, and Burt scoffed at his son, crossing his arms in front of him and muttering to himself, "You threaten to throttle the kid you find in your son's bed _once_, and suddenly you're the bad guy …"

"Okay, that attitude right there is reason enough for me to be concerned, Dad," Kurt said loudly, drowning out his father's grumblings, "and, coincidentally, it's also the reason I took the liberty last night of drawing up certain … certain _guidelines _for you and Finn, to help ensure tonight's dinner is a calm, relaxing, cheerful experience for everyone involved."

Burt's suspicious expression was back, though it was now tinged with a wrinkle of apprehension. "Guidelines? Ain't that another word for 'rules'?"

Kurt waved his hand dismissively as he trilled, "Semantics." As he stooped to rummage around in Carole's baking supplies' cupboard - a prime spot for Kurt to hide sensitive documents, as it was one of the last places either Burt or Finn would ever snoop - he heard Finn whisper to his dad, "Cement-tics - that's a bad thing, right?"

Burt was shrugging his shoulders when Kurt straightened up once more, holding two identical-looking pieces of paper in his hands. He handed them over to the other two men with a flourish. Finn and Burt both glanced down at the papers. As one, their expressions morphed into looks of distaste as they each read the heading _Ten Tips For Not Embarrassing Kurt_, which wasemblazoned across the top in bold, magenta lettering.

Kurt was now bouncing anxiously on the balls of his feet. "So … what d'you think?" he asked his dad and step-brother, watching closely as they stared agape at their lists. "Originally I had the whole thing color-coded, but I didn't want to run the risk of overwhelming you, so I stuck to just beautifying the title. I think it works better this way. Makes the heading really _pop_, you know?"

It was Burt who reacted first. He didn't speak, only sighed in a sad, long-suffering sort of way. He pulled off his ever-present ball cap and started rubbing the back of his head, still staring down at his paper, looking in dire need of a stiff drink.

Poor Finn, who wasn't nearly so used to Kurt's theatrics as Burt was, was wide-eyed again. "There isn't going to be a quiz after, is there?" he asked, sounding genuinely worried as his eyes skittered across the page in front of him.

Kurt laughed. "Don't be silly, Finn -" Finn let out a relieved sigh - "there isn't enough time for the quiz, so we're just going to have to hope a quick read-through will be enough."

Kurt smiled winningly at the two appalled faces opposite him, cleared his throat importantly, and began.

"Rule number one: no baby pictures will be shown at any moment during the course of the evening. I - no, Dad, not even if Blaine asks to see them. Which he won't, because last I checked he didn't have a death wish.

"Rule number two: no embarrassing anecdotes from my childhood, teen-hood, or near-adulthood will be shared. Please keep in mind, gentlemen, that what may be funny to you is mortifying to me. Also, take care to remember how well I hold grudges, that I never forget, and that I've been itching to de-flannel both your closets for months.

"Rule number three - and I know Carole will back me up on this one -"

"What am I backing you up on?" Kurt craned his neck around and watched as his step-mother entered the kitchen, wearing a very lovely ensemble Kurt had picked out specially for tonight. Her hair was tastefully pulled up, her make-up was flatteringly applied and, luckily for Finn, her ears were dangly-earring-free.

At least he could count on Carole to not humiliate him tonight, Kurt thought to himself fondly. Kurt's step-mother was always pleasant and easy-going, in a strictly non-embarrassing sort of way. Finn did not know just how easy he had had it so far with Carole as his mother.

Kurt wolf-whistled as Carole came to stand beside him, and she smiled appreciatively. The smile turned into an exasperated grimace when she saw a significant portion of her casserole was missing. Burt and Finn hastily hid their forks. Carole glared at the two of them for a moment, then rolled her eyes and turned back to Kurt, clearly unsurprised with the untimely demise her casserole had just suffered.

"We were just going over number three on my list of rules for this evening," Kurt explained, proudly indicating the papers Burt and Finn were still clutching.

"'_No belching of any kind at the dinner table_,'" Carole recited slowly, leaning over the kitchen island and upside-down-reading from Finn's list. "Oh yeah, definitely agree with that one." She looked significantly over at Finn. "Totally inappropriate way to sing 'Happy Birthday', by the way."

Kurt rounded on his brother. "You _burped _'Happy Birthday' to your _mother_?" he gasped, appalled; Burt chortled expressively and thumped Finn on the shoulder. "Please tell me you were younger than twelve when you did this."

Finn's look of sheepish chagrin was answer enough.

Kurt turned a solemn eye toward his step-mother and said, "You're a strong woman to have made it this far, Carole," to which Carole laughed.

At that moment a faint, yet distinctive _ding-dong_ floated down the hallway from the front room, and the four heads in the kitchen swiveled simultaneously in that direction. Burt looked darkly suspicious again; Carole was smiling pleasantly, unfazed; Finn was still trying to work out whether or not he had just been insulted. And Kurt …

… Kurt nearly swallowed his tongue when his heart leapt up for an impromptu visit with his wisdom teeth.

"Sweet Gucci, he's here," he whispered to himself, then said to the others with a would-be-casual voice that just so happened to be two octaves higher than usual, "I'll get it!" He scurried from the kitchen and into the hall, barking the word, "_Stay_!" over his shoulder, knowing without bothering to look that his father would try to sneak into the front hall behind him.

To say Kurt was feeling nervous as he approached the front door was a gross understatement: his heart was still chatting up his molars, his stomach was trying its hand at origami-ing itself into a paper crane, and his mouth had suddenly decided keeping itself moist was overrated. It was bad enough he hadn't read through the entire list with his father and Finn, let alone gone over proper table etiquette (something he would have to forewarn Blaine about if he got the chance), but Kurt honestly could not remember ever feeling this nervous before. He hadn't felt so nervous during his duet at Regionals, nor last year before his first game as the kicker on McKinley's football team. Hell, even coming out to Burt seemed like a cakewalk compared to _this_.

Because after all, it wasn't everyday you told your family you had snagged yourself a boyfriend.

_Boyfriend_. It had been just over a week since he and Blaine had first kissed (two-hundred-nineteen hours and thirty-seven minutes to be exact, but who was counting?) and still Kurt felt his heart flutter with delight whenever the b-word popped into his thoughts. It was a bit of an adjustment for Kurt, as referring to the boy he had spent months pining after as his boyfriend seemed almost surreal. The weeks leading up to _the kiss _had been fraught with strained conversations and awkward silences between the pair (Kurt still could not think about their sexy-face practice without wishing for a merciful death), and it had nearly gotten to the point where Kurt questioned whether they would ever again partake in the easy friendship they had started off with. The possibility of something more happening - moreover, that _Blaine _would be the one to initiate it - had not even crossed Kurt's mind, therefore he had spent the better part of the past week pinching himself on the arms, half-afraid he had dreamed the entire thing up.

But happen it did, and though the first few days afterward had been filled with hesitant glances and uneasy smiles as each boy became accustomed to the dramatic shift in their relationship, things had settled down relatively easily, and Kurt was now thoroughly enjoying learning what it truly meant to be dating Blaine Anderson. Doors being held open, hand-holding during study dates, flirty winks shared during Warbler rehearsals when Wes and David were too busy squabbling over set-lists to notice - Kurt had blissfully come to the conclusion that what Blaine had said about being bad at romance was nothing more than a boldfaced _lie_.

Kurt took a second to check his reflection in the mirror hanging in the hallway. After ensuring that every hair was in its proper place and his ensemble was entirely wrinkle-free, Kurt turned to the front door, spared a moment to will his internal organs back into their proper places, and reached for the doorknob.

When Kurt pulled open the door and peered out into the twilit evening, it was to see Blaine had his back to him. The other boy was staring out over the front lawn, shoulders hunched defensively from the frigid wind as it blew snow and ice relentlessly up against the front of the house. It was unseasonably cold this spring, even for Ohio, and large snowflakes were billowing every which way, swooping across the frozen flowerbeds, creating swirls of patterns that continuously shifted and redefined as they swept down the darkening street. It was a sight not usually seen in Lima in the middle of March, but it held a certain picturesque quality nonetheless.

Nothing about the weather managed to capture Kurt's attention, however; he was much too busy admiring the view Blaine's position relative to him (and his excellent taste in clothes) briefly afforded him. The double-breasted peacoat Blaine was wearing fell just below his waist, and Kurt quickly decided that whoever had designed the form-hugging cotton trousers Blaine had on deserved a hand-written thank-you note.

On _fancy _paper.

Blaine seemed to notice the warm light suddenly splashing onto the porch from the open door behind him, because he turned, a dazzling grin lighting up his features when he saw it was Kurt who had come to greet him. Kurt felt his knees go wobbly with the force of that _deadly weapon _trained on him, and suddenly he found himself not so much holding as _gripping _the door handle, lest he fall flat on his face and save Finn and Burt the trouble of humiliating him later on.

"Hello." Kurt had tried for coy and alluring, but instead he came off sounding pitchy and obnoxious, and he inwardly cringed when his voice cracked ungainly on the second syllable. Of all the possible evenings for his body to give a throwback to his pre-pubescent days …

Blaine, the highly intelligent boy that he was, pretended not to notice. "Kurt, hi!" He stepped through the doorway eagerly, and Kurt's brain promptly short-circuited as the other boy pulled him into a deliciously warm hug.

There was a light dusting of snow on Blaine's coat and in his hair, but Kurt was far from caring about this as he rested his chin against the shorter boy's shoulder and closed his eyes, secretly thrilled with just how tightly Blaine was holding him. Plus, the boy smelled incredible: a mixture of body wash and hair gel and cold and something so uniquely _Blaine _that Kurt could not stop himself from burrowing his nose into the side of the other's neck and sniffing. Blaine chuckled, gave Kurt's middle a quick squeeze, and stepped away. He kept his hands resting on Kurt's elbows, holding him at arm's-length and letting out a low whistle as he took in Kurt's outfit.

"Wow," he said, his grin widening as he ran his eyes appreciatively up and down the length of Kurt's figure. "You look … wow."

Judging by the slightly awestruck tone, the three agonizingly frustrating hours Kurt had spent wreaking havoc on his wardrobe in an attempt to assemble the perfect outfit had not been in vain. "Why, thank you." His brain did a happy dance when his voice came out sounding relatively normal again. He allowed his eyes to wander, and smiled in what he hoped was a flirty fashion. "You're looking pretty 'wow' yourself."

Blaine ducked his head bashfully as he admitted, "Jeff picked the outfit for me."

_Thank you, Warbler Jeff_, Kurt thought to himself, eyeing his new favorite pair of pants again as he mentally added the tall blond to his _people-to-receive-thank-you-notes _list. "I should bake that boy a cake," he murmured as an afterthought, and Blaine laughed again.

"So, are your parents here?" he asked as his hands slid down Kurt's arms to grip his hands loosely instead. A ridiculously girlish giggle threatened to bubble up Kurt's throat as their fingers tangled together.

Instead he nodded his head. "Finn, too." A fresh bout of nervousness swooped through Kurt and settled heavily in his stomach as the realization of what he was about to do truly sunk in. He was moments away from introducing Blaine. As his boyfriend. To his family. For the first time. He was going to look his father in the eye and tell him, a mere two weeks after sitting through that horrific sex talk with him, that he was dating. What's worse, he was going to go through all of that with the dapper gentleman in question standing next to him, smiling charmingly, completely unaware of the dangers an overprotective father and an abnormally uncoordinated step-brother could present.

Dear Gaga … what was he _thinking_?

A hint of Kurt's inner panic must have made itself known in his expression, because suddenly Blaine was grasping his hands a little firmer, squeezing his fingers gently as he asked with a concerned lilt, "Are you all right?"

Kurt nodded his head so vigorously, something in his neck cracked. "I'm fine," he said, and was instantly mortified when the words came out as unintelligible squeaking. Great, now his lungs were rebelling, too. "I'm fine," he repeated more firmly, as Blaine's thick eyebrows rose skeptically.

"You sure?" Blaine pressed, sounding uncertain as he peered closely up at Kurt. "You sound a little … off. You're not sick, are you?" Before Kurt could protest, Blaine had freed one of his hands from Kurt's to press it up against his forehead instead. "Hmm … I don't think you have a fever, but your forehead is definitely clammy" (Kurt felt his eyes widen in horror. Clammy? He was _clammy_? Oh, that was going to be murder on his pores …) "Is it that stomach thing that's been floating around Dalton? Nick's had it since Regionals, and he was throwing up every five minutes -"

Kurt pulled a face and held up a hand. "Ugh, Blaine, please." As much as he enjoyed the warm and decidedly _fluttery _sensations Blaine's worried rambling had generated within him, the imagery was doing nothing for Kurt's paper-craned stomach.

"I'm not sick," he told the other boy firmly, "I never get sick." Blaine clearly did not believe him, because Kurt had to slap his hand away when the boy moved to place it on his forehead again. "Really, Blaine," he said exasperatedly, "I take my vitamin and mineral regime way too seriously to fall victim to a mere stomach flu. No, it's just …" For the second time that evening, Kurt was fumbling for words. This was too much. Why hadn't anyone warned him that being in a relationship would affect his intelligence?

"It's just first time jitters, I guess," he finished lamely, wincing the moment the words left him. "Jitters"? Who used the word "jitters" anymore? He really needed to stop hanging around his father so much, if Burt's vocabulary was beginning to rub off on him. Next would be the wardrobe, and frankly, that thought was terrifying.

In the end, Kurt did not know what caused it: perhaps it was the shudder-inducing recollections of his very brief time as a John Mellencamp fan, or maybe the liquid hazel-y eyes gazing earnestly into his own as Blaine asked, "What d'you mean?" Whatever it was, Kurt had suddenly found himself compelled to open his mouth and speak - no, _pour_ out every insecure thought or misgiving he had been entertaining since he first issued Blaine the invitation for dinner earlier that week. And once the words started to come, Kurt was finding it exceedingly difficult to contain them.

"- it's the pamphlets, Blaine. They sit there and they _stare _at me, and I know it's my dad doing the staring, and he's just sitting there on my nightstand, _judging _me, and when I see him in the living room watching the game, I know he's wondering whether I've read them yet. And if he finds out that I _did _read them and constantly _think _about them and pretend it's you on the cover instead of that obnoxious Jeremiah look-alike … just - you're dapper, Blaine, really dapper, and you don't deserve to be shot with a cross-bow. It's a totally gross way to die and seriously unhygienic, and my dad isn't the greatest shot so he'd probably miss the first time, or hit you in the leg, and your legs are really nice, and Wes would _kill _me if you started limping during performances -"

Blaine was looking fairly confused by this point. Kurt couldn't blame him: he himself didn't know what he was talking about half the time anymore. Kurt did not fully understand the mechanics of it, but he was almost certain a disconnect between his brain and mouth occurred whenever Blaine was within eye-sight, resulting in an embarrassing case of _blurt-out-the-first-words-that-come-to-mind-and-damn-the-consequences_. It was an issue Kurt really needed to work on, especially if he ever wanted to sound anything other than mildly unhinged whenever in Blaine's presence.

"Okay," Blaine said slowly, after Kurt had paused to draw in a much needed breath, "I've never actually heard someone talk that fast before, and I think I lost you for a moment after you inferred your dad was a stack of pamphlets, but … does this have anything to do with telling him we're dating?"

The hormone-addled part of Kurt was thrilled to hear Blaine string the words "we're" and "dating" together in a sentence, particularly in reference to him; but the other part of Kurt, the one that had witnessed Burt Hummel behead a turkey every Thanksgiving for sixteen years, gave a tiny squeak of affirmation. He then wished for a hole to appear beneath his feet and swallow him up, because he had just squeaked. In front of Blaine. _Again_.

Blaine, bless him, ignored Kurt's abrupt devolution into a guinea pig. Instead, smiling softly in understanding, he pulled Kurt into another warm embrace, brushing a sweet kiss against his cheek as he did so, and Kurt had to forcibly remind himself that squealing like a Bieber-crazed twelve-year-old girl would do nothing but spoil the moment.

It was a near thing, though, because Blaine really did smell that good.

"For what it's worth," Blaine murmured into his ear, and Kurt would have been deeply embarrassed by his reaction to this simple act, had he not been too busy enjoying the delicious shivers that had shot down his spine the moment Blaine's lips began moving against his skin, "I think your dad will be relieved to know you've found some happiness after the year you've been through." The unspoken reference to Dave Karofsky had both boys tightening their holds imperceptibly. "And even if he's not, you said it yourself: your dad's not the greatest shot, and clearly you haven't taken into consideration just how agile a runner I am."

Kurt smiled at this, and when he pulled away, it was to see Blaine grinning cheekily back at him. Kurt shook his head ruefully, but his smile widened as the coil of nerves in his stomach loosened significantly. It was a comfort to know that, no matter how uncomfortable and nerve-wracking the next couple of hours may be, at least Blaine would be there to help diffuse the tension.

"So you have a lot of experience running away from shotgun-wielding fathers, then?" Kurt teased, separating from Blaine completely and gesturing for him to take off his jacket.

Blaine began unbuttoning his coat, pulling a face as he answered, "I was too busy running away from the daughters to notice the dads, Kurt."

It was then that Burt's voice floated down the hallway, calling out for Kurt to "hurry it up, this ain't France, no one's going to announce you in." The sound of his father's slightly disgruntled voice had Kurt's nerves back on high alert, and Blaine watched with concern as it took him three tries to get the coat hung up properly in the coat closet.

"Kurt." Kurt turned, and Blaine was there, expression honest and open and so awkwardly _sincere_, and something like honey was seeping into Kurt's stomach, making him feel warm and dizzy as he wondered, for what must have been the hundredth time that week, how he had managed to convince such a perfect specimen of a boy that he was worthy of his attention.

Blaine snagged his hands again, interlacing their fingers before he spoke in an undertone. "If you don't want to tell your family tonight, I'll understand." The warm, honey feeling began to spread, and Kurt looked down at their joined hands, because if Blaine caught sight of the truly soppy expression Kurt was wearing, he would just _die_. "There's no pressure from this end, Kurt, I want to make that clear." Blaine squeezed his fingers reassuringly, and when Kurt met his eyes, the shorter boy grinned one of his killer grins and winked. "I'm perfectly happy with pretending to be nothing more than a friend while we play footsie under the table." He paused, seemed to consider something, and then hurriedly added, "So long as your father is at the other end of the table."

Picturing the look on his father's face if Burt felt an unexpected foot sidle up against his during dinner was enough to have Kurt spluttering in laughter, his nerves momentarily forgotten.

"C'mon," Kurt said, still chortling as he began tugging Blaine toward the kitchen. "As hilarious as the prospect of you accidentally feeling up my dad under the dinner table is -" Blaine stumbled slightly behind him - "I think he'll be less likely to have a second heart attack if I just tell him I'm dating you."

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><p><strong>AN#2: <strong>Gah, I know. Too long, right? I tried to split it up a bit, I really did, but my fingers were having none of that, it seems. I'll try not to ramble on so much next time.

Friendly reminder: Reviews are placed upon a pedestal, addressed as "Your Majesty" and gratuitously revered. Heck, I may even throw in a sacrificial chicken if they're on sale this week.


	2. Chapter Two: Burt's Interrogation

**Disclaimer (whoops, totally forgot to put one of these up in the first chapter): **All things Glee belong to Ryan Murphy and friends. Not the bad puns, though: those are all mine. I'm not making any money off this piece of writing, as is abundantly clear to all those who know me in real life.

**AN: **Firstly, a big, gaudy and glittery _Thank You! _to all who read and reviewed. I don't think I have ever squealed so hard in my life as I did when I read all those lovely words you guys sent me. No, seriously: evidently I can reach a pitch only dogs and large bats could hear. It is because of those wonderful, terrific, awesome, splendiferous reviews of yours that I'm here proudly presenting this second installment now, since technically I should have been studying for my uber-important finals that are coming up ... crap, tomorrow ... instead of working on this story. That being said, I wouldn't expect another chapter for a while - I really will have to concentrate on the exams I didn't study for, which are happening all this week. After that, though, I am free to write to my heart's content.

Oh, and that thing I said about not writing any more chapters as long as the first one? Yeah, totally lied. I think this second chapter is longer by two hundred words, or something.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Two: Burt's Interrogation<strong>

All things considered, Kurt supposed that the evening could have started off much worse than it did. True, his heart was still thumping uncomfortably fast and the hand he had used to tug Blaine along behind him was clenched so tightly it was beginning to cramp - but nobody had cried yet, which was always considered a plus during mealtimes in the house Kurt Hummel's acerbic tongue lived. And while there had been _some _blood spilled, Finn cracking his head on the lighting fixture above the kitchen island was a daily occurrence, as the lumbering boy always failed to remember that, though the rest of the family could function perfectly fine underneath it, that particular lamp was hung in a location primed to concuss him. But Finn being abominably clumsy and accident-prone was common knowledge; that his forehead smacked into the lamp at the precise moment Kurt and Blaine stepped through the kitchen doorway was nothing more than coincidence partnered together with bad timing and low blood-sugar. Finn's depth perception always suffered when he was functioning on an empty stomach, everyone knew this, and therefore Kurt decided to construe his step-brother's bloodied left eyebrow, not as an ill omen for the outcome of the evening, but instead as an unconventional ice-breaker.

"Remember to use the towels under the sink, honey," Carole called out helpfully as her son rushed past, a hand clamped over his eye, the other flailing about in front of him as a means to ward off any other unseen hazards he might encounter on his trek to the bathroom. "The ones on the towel rack are new." She turned to Kurt and Blaine with a cheerful smile. "We're so happy you could join us tonight, Blaine."

It was lucky that Kurt had had the foresight to mention the probability of bloodshed during the course of their evening to Blaine, for it allowed a quicker recovery time, and Blaine was all dapperness and smiles again after only a few shock-filled seconds. "Thank you for inviting me, Mrs. Hummel," he replied politely. He looked over his shoulder to watch Finn's slow progress down the hall. "Should someone go with him?" he asked Kurt in an undertone, sounding concerned, and wincing sympathetically when Finn tripped himself with his own foot.

Kurt, who had flattened himself against the wall when Finn barreled past, had straightened up and was now attempting to fix his hair with one hand. "He'll be fine," he said dismissively, not even bothering to glance at his brother's retreating back. "We removed everything with sharp edges from the hall after Finn's blender incident last month."

Blaine appeared both intrigued and alarmed by this. He opened his mouth to speak - presumably to ask Kurt for a more detailed explanation - but something seemed to catch Blaine's attention, because he closed his mouth abruptly, his gaze snapping forward, and an odd, garbled noise emitting from his throat. Kurt, who could feel the tension suddenly wafting from the usually unflappable boy next to him, stopped fussing with his hair and looked at Blaine inquiringly, frowning slightly. What had gotten into him?

The answer came to Kurt almost instantly, wearing red flannel, a gray baseball cap, and leaking an aura of poorly-hidden hostility.

Kurt had been so busy repairing the damage Finn's hasty exit from the kitchen had caused his hair, that he had not noticed the looming form of his father making its way around the island counter until it was too late. Burt now stood right in front of him and Blaine, arms crossed and expression inscrutable as he eyed the pair of them beadily. His gaze flickered downwards briefly, and Kurt audibly gulped when he belatedly remembered that he and Blaine were still holding hands. Resolve crumbling pathetically in the face of his father's scrutiny, Kurt smiled weakly and tried to let go. Blaine was having none of that, however; whether he was trying to be courageous, or was paralyzed by fear, Kurt couldn't tell, but the shorter boy's hand had clenched painfully around his, and Kurt was sure nothing short of a crowbar and a blow torch would be separating them any time soon. And when Kurt remembered his dad not only owned several blow torches, but used them on a regular basis as well, he was overcome by a bout of high-pitched, panic-stricken laughter.

Fortunately (or unfortunately) for Kurt, his tendency to dissolve into maniacal giggling whenever a situation turned dire was as common placed as Finn's penchant for inflicting harm on himself, so rather than look at his son as though he were loonier than a pocketful of Canadian change, Burt merely waited until Kurt regained control of himself before asking gruffly, "This mean what I think it means, Kurt?"

He gestured to their hands.

Kurt wavered. For a very brief second, he entertained the tempting notion of denying it, of shaking his head and explaining to Burt that hand-holding was the gay version of a high-five - his dad, as clueless as he was about most things homosexual, would probably believe him - thus successfully delaying the inevitable interrogation until the following weekend … or year. Or never. Whichever.

But then Blaine squeezed his hand and whispered, "_Courage_," out the side of his mouth, and that fluttery feeling in Kurt's stomach was back with a vengeance as he was reminded of the amount of unending support he had behind him. It would be so stupid of Kurt not to want to show his amazing new boyfriend off, and the absolute last thing he wanted was for Blaine to ever think Kurt was ashamed, when he very much was _not_, and so he gathered his fleeing courage together, took in a deep breath and, before he could chicken out, nodded his head mutely.

Burt gazed at his son for a breath. He did not appear all that surprised. "I see." He turned, and that steady gaze was now resting fully on Blaine. The set of Burt's jaw was taut and grim as he regarded the boy, his expression stoic with just a hint of unfriendly around the eyes.

Kurt was not an expert, but he was fairly sure knuckles were not meant to crunch together the way his currently were, locked so tightly within Blaine's death grip. It was plain to see that Blaine was not faring well under Burt's incessant gaze. The hand Kurt was holding was growing damp, and he watched as Blaine swallowed thickly several times. Kurt hadn't even known it was possible for a person's skin to turn that particular shade of green, and he was therefore startled when Blaine, instead of falling to the ground dead-like in an attempt fool Burt (which is what Kurt would have done, had their positions been reversed), straightened to his full height, squared his shoulders bravely, and put on his best showman's smile.

"Mr. Hummel," Blaine said; Kurt was impressed and a little envious by how steady Blaine's voice was - he hadn't squeaked once. Blaine unclamped their hands with difficulty, then offered his to Burt instead. "It's nice to see you again, sir."

Burt stared down at Blaine's outstretched hand in a way that had Kurt fighting down more nervous giggles; it was as though his father were mentally cataloguing every tool he owned based on the amount of damage it could inflict upon the limb currently proffered to him. The seconds ticked by in strained silence, with Kurt and Carole gazing uncertainly between Burt and Blaine, both of whom were standing unnaturally still. Kurt could not fathom why his father had yet to move, either to shake Blaine's hand or remove him bodily from the house; but Blaine made it perfectly clear, by the slight widening of his eyes and the anxious grimace his smile was slowly morphing into, that he feared any sudden movements on his part would have Burt rushing in for the kill.

The seconds lengthened in unbearable silence, until there was a clattering from the hall, causing everyone in the kitchen to flinch and (in Kurt's case, though he would vehemently deny it later) shriek. Then, in all his galumphing glory, Finn returned, ducking his head between Kurt and Blaine and smiling obliviously, a Spongebob band-aid plastered across his eyebrow.

"Dudes, why are you just standing around?" he asked, looking from Kurt to Blaine and back again; the dopey look Finn wore was magnified ten-fold by his ridiculous bandage. "Time for food!" He shouldered his way into the kitchen - Kurt squawked indignantly as he was shoved up against the wall a second time - and asked his mother what plates he should set for dinner.

And just like that, the staring contest was over. While Carole turned away to ensure Finn did not stab himself with the knives he had just pulled from the cutlery drawer, Burt took a step toward Blaine. Blaine sucked in a steadying breath and closed his eyes. Forming the same conclusions Blaine had apparently reached, Kurt eyed his father warily, but before he could come to his senses and pull his boyfriend out of harm's way, Burt had darted forward, and he and Blaine were suddenly grasping hands and shaking. Blaine opened his eyes slowly, blinking down at his hand as though surprised to find it still attached to his wrist. Kurt found himself studying his father's expression closely, searching for some small sign of deceit, afraid the hand-shaking was merely a ruse, or perhaps part of an elaborate trap.

"Blaine." Burt drew out the name slowly, appraisingly, and in a way that had Blaine's eyes widening a fraction more. Burt noticed this, and must have been pleased by the anxiety he was invoking in his son's suitor, because soon he was wearing a grin that showed off far too much teeth to ever be labeled as warm and inviting.

"You're looking a little nervous, kid," he continued, his tone light and casual. They were still shaking hands as Burt leaned in closer to Blaine, making the contrast between their heights more prevalent; Blaine had to tip his chin up to keep eye contact, and the poor boy did not seem comfortable with exposing quite so much of his neck. Burt's grin widened. "More nervous than the last time we talked, even. You remember the last time we talked, there, Blaine?"

An odd little spasm seemed to ripple through Blaine's shoulders, an abrupt and jerky movement, and Kurt felt his eyebrow slowly raise as he looked back and forth from his father to his boyfriend. He was beginning to feel as though he was missing an important thread to the conversation.

Blaine cleared his throat several times before responding. "Y-yes, sir." Kurt's second eyebrow joined the first. Did Blaine just stutter? Blaine didn't stutter! Never, in all the time Kurt had known him, had Blaine ever _stuttered_.

Kurt did not like the look his father was wearing. It was contemplative. Burt Hummel didn't _do _contemplative. Sensing danger, Kurt opened his mouth to speak, but before he could think of anything to say other than, _Please don't hurt his face_!, Burt held up his free hand to silence him, not once removing his eyes from Blaine's.

"We're just having a friendly conversation, Kurt, that's all," he said easily, before returning to Blaine. "D'you remember what it was you talked to me about, kid?"

Blaine nodded his head. His stage smile was still fixed firmly in place, though it was looking increasingly pained every second he stood there with his hand clasped by Burt's.

"Thought you might." Burt still spoke lightly, as if he and Blaine were simply discussing the weather, but something in his gaze sharpened almost imperceptibly. Kurt thought his father's smile looked a smidge more intimidating than it had a second ago, and although his dad had _finally _stopped shaking Blaine's hand, he did not relinquish his hold on the other's fingers just yet; Blaine's eyes flickered down to his wrist, looking wary and wildly distrustful, and Kurt wondered whether Blaine was regretting his rash decision to allow Burt the golden opportunity of inflicting physical damage on the boy who was dating his only son.

Burt's smile was looking remarkably feral by this point. "Don't suppose the reason you're so nervous right now has anything to do with that little _chat_ you and me had, does it, buddy?"

Kurt didn't know whether he would categorize the short, stuttering laugh that escaped Blaine at these words as _hysterical _- Blaine was still smiling, after all, even if he did look a little shell-shocked - but it held an edge of something distinctly uncomfortable. Blaine's shoulders hitched, and the hand being held captive by Kurt's dad flexed; it almost looked as though Blaine was trying to free himself from Burt's clutches, and failing miserably at it.

"No - ah, no sir," he fumbled, his grin slipping a few notches as he gritted his teeth; Kurt saw his hand flex again.

Burt cocked his head to the side, squinting down at Blaine. His speaking was completely effortless when he asked, "You sure about that, Blaine?"

There was no mistaking it this time: the threat was prominent in the quiet manner his father enunciated Blaine's name, and Kurt was sure he saw Blaine's knees buckle ever-so-slightly when Burt unexpectedly tightened his grip. Fearing for the well-being of Blaine's digits - he strummed his guitar with that hand! - Kurt looked desperately over to his step-mother, wishing for her to intervene. Most unfortunately, Carole was preoccupied: Finn had somehow managed to get the salad scoops twisted in his T-shirt, and Carole was busy fussing with the camera on her phone, trying to snap a picture of the spectacle that was her son before he freed himself. And since Kurt could not count on Finn escaping the clutches of the salad tongs any time soon, as normally the blundering teen needed help figuring out which way his socks went, he knew there would be no help from that corner.

But as it turned out, an intervention would not be necessary. While it was true Blaine was visibly shaking under the formidable presence of _the boyfriend's father_, he wasn't known as Dapper Blaine for nothing. Blaine Anderson _flourished _under pressure, was _born _for it - a quality which made him a force to be reckoned with during performances. He always managed to melt the iciest of hearts with a few well-placed winks, or change the most hardened of opinions with a flirty smile or two. The young Warbler had yet to meet a show judge he could not woo, and Burt Hummel was nothing more than an exceptionally critical adjudicator …

A burly hand clamped down, hard, onto Blaine's shoulder. "You understand what I'm saying, here, kid?"

… A truly intimidating, mildly frightening, exceptionally critical adjudicator.

"Absolutely, Mr. Hummel, sir." Blaine's voice, while still very strained, was also clear, and Kurt felt a trickle of admiration begin to fill him as he watched his boyfriend conquer his flight instinct. Though he was still completely lost about what it was his dad and Blaine were talking about, because as far as Kurt knew, the two of them had never partaken in conversation with each other before, unless one counted the breakfast debacle after Rachel Berry's party, wherein Burt said "grr" and Blaine threw up on the door mat. Kurt sure didn't count it, since he was the one who had to clean the door mat, and could attest to the fact Blaine hadn't done all that much talking.

"I can assure you, sir," Blaine continued, his voice growing stronger with every second that passed without Burt striking him, "that I had only the best of intentions then. The same as I do now," he hastily added, when one of Burt's eyebrows rose in a fashion eerily similar to Kurt's. "I have nothing but the utmost respect for your son, sir." He smiled a watered-down version of his heart-stopping grin, and despite the seriousness of the situation, Kurt felt his stomach flop pleasantly. "My mother raised me to be a gentleman."

Kurt thought this a terrific tactic of Blaine's, slyly inserting a mention of his mother into the conversation, because then Burt would feel less inclined to murder him if he knew the boy had loved ones who would wonder at his absence.

Amazingly, it seemed to do the trick; after staring hard at Blaine for a few more beats, Burt nodded his head slowly, and finally released Blaine's hand.

"You know what, kiddo?" he said, and Kurt let out a sigh of relief when his dad's face broke into a much more natural, easy-going grin. "I think she did." He chortled at Blaine's flabbergasted look. "Come on." Burt had both hands on Blaine's shoulders now, and was steering him toward the table in the next room. "You can sit next to me."

Blaine glanced over at Kurt, distressed. Kurt could only shrug back, equally nonplussed. He was still trying to process what had just happened, and whether or not his father had just, in his own gruff way, given him and Blaine his blessing.

"Kurt?"

Burt, Carole, and Finn were seated around their dinner table. Blaine was standing between two empty places, looking awkward yet endearing as he held out one of the chairs, waiting for Kurt to join them.

Kurt felt his soppy look return full-force, and he tried very hard not to skip the short distance to the next room.

He wasn't so sure he succeeded, though.

"So," Burt said, clapping his hands together once everyone had settled down, "dig in! Oh …" He eyed Blaine's crisp white button-down and fitted blue dinner jacket dubiously. Kurt thought he knew what was puzzling his father: it was a rarity to have more than one well-dressed male seated at a Hummel-Hudson meal. "You're not one of them churchy types that say grace before each meal, are you, Blaine?"

"Dad!" Kurt hissed, shocked and embarrassed. "Could you be any more insensitive?"

Burt gave him a _what'd I do?_ shrug. "I was only asking a question, Kurt. Can't a man do that at his own dinner table, or d'you got another list for me to read?"

Kurt frowned at the jibe to his list. He had worked hard on that.

"It's fine if you are, honey," Carole interceded smoothly, shooting Burt a warning look before smiling encouragingly at Blaine.

Blaine returned her smile. "My family isn't religious," he replied easily. "My mom tries to get us to say grace during holidays, or when company's over, but my dad grumbles about it." Blaine took a bite of casserole. "This is delicious, Mrs. Hummel."

Carole beamed and Kurt suppressed a smile. Blaine would have no troubles getting on Carole's good side now. She loved anyone who complimented her cooking, and that included Noah Puckerman.

"So do you live at home during the school year, then, Blaine?" Carole asked as she passed Kurt the salad bowl.

"No, I stay in the dormitories," said Blaine, accepting the bread basket from Burt without making eye-contact. "Dalton has really nice rooming facilities."

"Do your parents live very far from Westerville?"

Blaine hesitated for only half a second. "They live just south of Columbus, actually."

"Oh." Carole seemed surprised by this. "Well, it must be nice having them so close by. They probably visit you all the time."

Blaine smiled politely but didn't say anything.

"Blaine has his own room," Kurt piped up, looking pointedly at his father as he spoke. He and Burt had argued for days over whether or not Kurt should board at Dalton during the week. Burt had been adamant that Kurt live at home and keep close to the family, while Kurt had tried to convince his dad that commuting nearly two hours each way five days a week was a terrible idea in the current economic state, not to mention morally reprehensible in regards to gas emissions and the depleting environment. He had nearly convinced Burt, too, until Finn had come up with the _brilliant _idea of him and Kurt switching cars during the week.

The alarming possibility of _Finn _driving his baby to McKinley had Kurt quickly abandoning his campaign for boarding at Dalton, and he instead had had to focus all of his exemplary negotiation skills (and a binder devoted to screenshots of his step-brother's more risqué website perusals) toward convincing his father he would be mocked off school grounds if he showed up for his first day driving Finn's beat up old station wagon. It had been a close call, and Burt was continuously griping about the rising gas prices, but Kurt easily ignored this, because really now - how was Kurt expected to coordinate outfits with _wooden paneling_? He may have an eye for fashion most grown women would maim for, but even he wasn't _that_ good.

"Dude, you get your own room? Awesome," Finn said - or at least, that's what Kurt assumed Finn said; it was hard to tell when his brother had half of Carole's casserole stuffed into his cheeks. Kurt sniffed disdainfully when a half-eaten piece of broccoli tumbled out of his step-brother's gaping, black hole of a mouth; Finn's actions were a blatant disregard of rule number seven, and proved to Kurt that his father and brother had not taken his list seriously.

Finn tore a chunk off a bread roll and swigged some milk before asking Blaine thickly, "Is it like going to college?"

"Not really," Blaine answered, hardly batting an eye at Finn's impromptu squirrel impression; Kurt didn't know how Blaine managed to watch Finn chew without feeling ill. "There's a feeling of independence most boarders experience, being away from their parents, but the teachers and monitors are big on structure and abiding by the rules. We have a curfew, for one thing, and we're not allowed to leave school grounds after six o'clock during school nights."

"Nothing wrong with having a bit of structure," Burt grunted as he reached for a second helping of casserole; Kurt pushed the salad bowl closer to him with an arched eyebrow, and Burt sighed heavily.

"Oh, I agree, sir," Blaine responded immediately, nodding his head emphatically, and Kurt had to hide his chuckle behind a cough. He was almost positive Blaine would agree to running six blocks uphill with a bag of rocks in each hand if it meant gaining Burt's favor.

"These rules," Burt began, spooning some leafy greens onto his plate with a disgruntled look, "they say anything about having visitors in your room?"

There was a dull _thunk _as something collided with the underside of the table. Everyone turned to Blaine, who was diligently eating his dinner, the back of his neck beginning to redden.

Once again, Kurt could sense imminent danger approaching. "Day students are allowed to visit the dorms until six during the weekdays," he informed his father curtly. He snatched the bottle of blue cheese dressing out of Burt's hand and replaced it with a raspberry vinaigrette instead. "Weekends are open."

Burt scowled briefly at the bottle in his hand, before reluctantly uncapping it and sprinkling its contents over his salad. "What's that mean, 'open'?" he directed at Kurt.

There was a pause, while Kurt tried to word his response in a way that did not make it seem as though he had been actively researching it - even though he had. Thoroughly. "It means there aren't any visiting hours, Dad. People can stay as long as they want when there isn't school the next morning. There's something about signing over-night guests in with a hall monitor -"

"It's so the monitors know how many people are in the buildings in case of an emergency," Blaine supplied knowledgably. Then he blanched. "Not that I know that because I've ever signed someone in for an overnight, or anything," he blurted, wide-eyed, "because I haven't. Ever. Not - not even friends."

Everyone was looking at Blaine again, who coughed uncomfortably and stared down at his plate in apparent mortification. Kurt could sympathize; it seemed he wasn't the only one dealing with a malfunctioning brain-mouth connector that evening. Kurt rubbed Blaine's knee comfortingly, but the unexpected touch only caused the tense boy to jerk violently and bump the table again.

Carole decided to take pity and change the subject. "Kurt tells us you're a Buckeyes fan," she said coaxingly to Blaine. "Did you make it to any games last season?"

Blaine appeared immensely grateful for the change in subject, and he answered Carole with a vigor Kurt only half-believed was fabricated. Finn, who up until this point had been busy inhaling his third helping of casserole, perked up eagerly at the mention of his favorite college football team, and soon he and Blaine were deeply engrossed in an animated discussion about the legendary Buckeye-Wolverine rivalry, with Carole and even Burt occasionally adding to the conversation. Kurt had a feeling his father was grudgingly impressed by Blaine's advanced knowledge of football, if the way his dad shot Blaine a stunned glance when he began naming his favorite players was any indication.

The sports talk lasted all the way to dessert. Normally when this happened, Kurt would pout, loudly complain about feeling excluded, and demand they discuss at least one article from his latest issue of _Vogue_. This time, though, he found himself not caring overly much. Sitting there and watching the way Blaine's eyes lit up with enthusiasm as he spoke about something he clearly enjoyed was more than enough to keep Kurt pleasantly content, without feeling a need to enter the conversation or change the subject.

And anyway, even if Kurt _had _been bored sitting there listening to the dull discussion about quarterbacks and runner backs and whatever-backs, there were other ways he could keep himself entertained. Due to the close proximity of Burt and his healthy fear of the man, Blaine had kept his feet planted stubbornly against the wooden floor for the entire duration of dinner. Since Kurt did not share his boyfriend's fear of castration should Burt become privy to any shenanigans (even shenanigans as innocent as footsie under the dinner table), he had taken it upon himself to casually rub his foot against Blaine's ankle whenever the other boy would speak. Kurt found the way Blaine's voice faltered slightly whenever he felt Kurt's foot move delightfully hilarious, and when Blaine took advantage of a pause in the conversation to shoot a withering glower at him, Kurt just smiled innocently and rubbed his foot higher.

Later, after the dinner dishes had been cleared away and everybody had eaten at least two of Kurt's homemade, low-fat brownies, Burt addressed Blaine again.

"You know, Blaine," he said, as he smothered his third brownie with a generous dollop of whipped cream, "for all the yapping Kurt does when it comes to you, I still feel as though we don't know all that much about you."

"Dad," Kurt began warily, instantly distrustful of his father's motives, "remember the list …"

"Your fancy list didn't say nothing about getting to know your friend, Kurt," Burt replied calmly. "I'm allowed to ask questions, ain't I?" He took a bite of his dessert, before gesturing with his fork for Blaine to begin.

Blaine took a moment to swallow his own mouthful of brownie before he asked cautiously, "What would you like to know, sir?"

"Well, we know you enjoy football - d'you like any other sports?"

"Oh, sure," said Blaine, relaxing subtlely into his chair. "I watch baseball during the summer, and me and my dad used to go golfing."

"Your dad, huh?" Burt focused his attention back on his plate. "And what does he do?"

"He's a CFO," Blaine responded automatically. "Works in downtown Columbus in one of the large investment firms there."

"And no, Finn, that has nothing to do with extra terrestrials," Kurt interrupted with an eye roll, knowing the wild leap his brother's mind had made before he even opened his mouth.

"… Oh." Finn looked almost disappointed. Carole shook her head sadly behind her hand.

"Does your mom work?" Burt continued with his interrogating, undeterred, and Kurt wondered frustratingly just how many more questions his dad was going to ask.

Blaine was a trooper, though, and had yet to show any sign of discomfort at Burt's mildly invasive inquiry. "She's an event coordinator at the community center near their house," he said.

"Huh." There was a pause in the questioning, and for a moment Kurt was hopeful his father had run out of queries to pepper Blaine with.

But then -

"So how many relationships you been in, Blaine?"

Kurt screeched, "Dad!" at the same moment Carole cried, "Burt!"

"Rule number ten, Dad!" Kurt all but shrieked. "_No asking the dinner guest about past relationships_! It's on the list!"

"That was the _worst_ segue I've ever heard," Carole admonished her husband, sounding exasperated. "Really, Burt, if you were any blunter, you'd have small birds following you around, trying to crack walnuts open on your head!"

Finn chortled at the visual this provided.

Burt did his _What, me_? look again. "I'm just curious, is all," he smirked, clearly enjoying the reactions he had extracted from his son and wife.

Kurt turned to Blaine. "You do _not _have to answer that question."

But Blaine, to Kurt's utter amazement, was actually still smiling.

"It's all right," he said, placing a placating hand on Kurt's arm when the other started puffing up indignantly on his behalf. "I don't mind."

"No, Blaine, Kurt's right," said Carole, instantly siding with her step-son. "Burt is being completely inappropriate, and he's going to _stop immediately_." She glared across the table at her husband. "Aren't you, Burt?"

Burt appeared totally unrepentant as he pushed away his empty dessert plate and leaned back in his chair leisurely. "Blaine doesn't mind my questions, do you, kid?"

"I don't," Blaine affirmed. "I really don't," he repeated when Kurt scoffed disbelievingly. "I totally understand where you're coming from, Mr. Hummel." He smiled thinly at Burt, who blinked back, caught off guard. "And the answer to your question is none."

Everyone stilled, even Kurt, who had been seconds away from crisply informing his dad he could expect nothing but celery sticks and bean sprouts for dinner over the course of the next month. All eyes were focused on Blaine once more, and for the first time that evening, the boy seemed perfectly comfortable with that fact.

Finn was the first one to speak.

"Dude," he said, shaking his head softly, and Kurt amazed at the amount of sympathy his brother could inject into just one word_._ Because after all, it was _Finn_."That's rough."

Blaine shrugged modestly. "Nothing but the truth."

"Wait, so, nothing at all?" Burt sounded incredulous, and Kurt wondered whether or not his dad was actively trying to humiliate him. "Not even before you - y'know - figured out your … preferences?"

Blaine shook his head in the negative.

"Huh." Burt didn't seem to know how to respond to that. He scratched at his slightly distended stomach absently as he pondered what Blaine said. "No shame in it, bud," he said finally, sounding almost apologetic for bringing it up, "I guess I just assumed, since Kurt dated that girl last year and all -"

Next to Blaine, Kurt froze. His father had _not _just said what Kurt thought he said … he glared accusingly at Burt, feeling utterly betrayed.

Blaine wheeled around to stare at him. "You dated a _what_?"

Kurt groaned, horrified by Blaine's disbelieving look, and hid his face in his hands. He was hallucinating, he must be, because there was no way Burt had just told Blaine about his pathetic attempt at playing straight. Kurt peeked through the gaps in his fingers, and saw that Blaine was watching him, looking totally gob-smacked. Kurt found himself desperately wishing for a distraction, anything to steer the conversation away from him, and was heavily disappointed when none came. If there ever was a time in Kurt's life when he believed in a higher power that took sadistic pleasure in causing its creations misery, it was then.

Finn had started to laugh. "Hey, yeah, I remember that!" he guffawed, as chocolate sauce dripped off the end of his chin. "Kurt and Brittany!"

Blaine's brow furrowed. "That tall, blonde girl from Rachel's party?" he asked blankly, trying to recollect his hazy memories from that night. "The one that kept squeaking at me?"

"She thought she was speaking dolphin," Finn supplied with a shrug.

"There's lights on in that girl's head, but nobody's home," Burt commented off-handedly. "Completely out of her tree."

"Sweet girl, though, even if she is confused all the time," Carole added. She stood up and began collecting everyone's plates. Blaine immediately leapt up to help. "Don't trouble yourself, hun, I've go them. Burt?" She looked pointedly at her husband. "Your turn for dishwasher duty."

Kurt thought his father seemed very reluctant to let Blaine out of his sight; Kurt himself desperately wanted his father to just leave already before he let slip some other humiliating aspect about his son's past Blaine did not know about yet. And anyway, Kurt privately felt his father had nothing to worry about in terms of Blaine putting any moves on him: the young Warbler had been favoring his right hand all during dinner, which led Kurt to believe that the unspoken threat Burt had conveyed through their record-breaking handshake was still fresh within his boyfriend's memory.

Carole cleared her throat loudly from the doorway, and Burt huffed. He wasn't a stupid man, and he had been married to Carole long enough to correctly interpret her _I-mean-business_ glare, so after leveling a charged glance at Blaine that had the young man hiding his hands nervously beneath the table, Burt lumbered slowly to his feet and followed his wife into the kitchen.

"Thank you for a wonderful dinner, Mrs. Hummel," Blaine called sycophantically to Kurt's step-mother's retreating back. When the sounds of the kitchen faucet could be heard in the next room, he sighed audibly and slumped against his seat, looking battle-worn, as though he had just braved the beaches of Normandy with nothing but a broken umbrella as a weapon. He looked over at Kurt.

"Your dad is terrifying," he told him hollowly. Kurt patted his shoulder in commiseration, not bothering to deny it.

Finn pushed his chair back from the table and stood up, stretching his arms languorously above his head and yawning. The yellow Spongebob band-aid was still easily noticeable, standing in stark contrast to his dark-colored eyebrow.

"Burt's not so bad once you get used to him," he offered, glancing down at Blaine and smiling crookedly. He hesitated, then added, "You're a cool dude, Blaine. And I'm, y'know, really sorry I egged your car last month."

Blaine blinked up at the boy towering over him. "That was you?"

Finn ducked his head sheepishly, muttered something that sounded suspiciously like _kissed Rachel_, then turned to leave the dining room. He paused and glanced back at the two boys still seated at the table when he reached the doorway. "Doesn't mean I won't do it again if you mess around with Kurt, though," he added balefully, ducking out of the room before either of the other boys could respond.

Kurt and Blaine stared after him, their mouths hanging open.

"Do you think my step-mom would be angry with me if I sold him to a circus?" Kurt finally spoke in a deadpan, puckering his lips as he pondered the thought.

Blaine seemed to think it over, too. "It'd probably help if you pointed out how much she'd save on groceries if he were gone."

The two boys grinned at each other as the final vestiges of their tense dinner finally lifted from them.

"Well," Kurt began lightly, sliding out of his seat and waiting for Blaine to do the same. "You managed an entire hour in my father's presence without throwing up on anything -" Blaine glared half-heartedly at him, affronted - "so I think this calls for a celebration." He grabbed Blaine's non-mangled hand and began pulling him toward the living room. "Finn's got a basketball game tonight, which gives us free reign over the television. Do you want to watch Ghost Adventures, or re-runs of The Jersey Shore?"

"Kurt, you hate both of those shows," Blaine felt the need to point out.

Kurt glanced saucily over his shoulder at Blaine as he said in an impish voice, "I'm not planning on actually _watching _any television tonight, silly boy."

"I heard that!" called an irate voice from the kitchen.

Kurt and Blaine both flinched.

* * *

><p><strong>AN#2: <strong>So whadya think? Fun fact - I rewrote every interaction Blaine had with Burt after watching the BTW episode. I thought Burt was so freaking awesome in the Figgin's office scene, that I just had to redo his whole over-protective-fatherness. He'd been a lot quieter and more brooding in my first version.

Reviews are my drug of choice! They make me giggly and philosophical ... and also give me the munchies. **shrug** I don't get it either.


	3. Chapter Three: Warblerville

**AN: **Good news is I didn't fail my finals! Scraped through by the edge of my teeth on a couple, true, but still … Bad news is it took me a ridiculously long time getting this effing chapter to work right. I don't know why it bugged me so much I had to re-write it three times, it just did. Anyways, forgive me.

If you squint hard enough, you may see the beginnings of a plot. I didn't find it myself ... which is a sad thought, considering I'm writing the stupid thing ...

**Disclaimer: **None of it's mine. How depressing.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Three: Warblerville<strong>

A gavel sounded resonantly throughout the room.

"Warblers, find your seats," Wes commanded authoritatively, and the members of Dalton Academy's Glee club began settling themselves about their lavishly furnished meeting hall. It was half past six o'clock on a Monday morning, and most of the boys were stifling yawns and rubbing puffy red eyes as they shuffled to their seats, grumbling to themselves and each other as they eyed their senior council resentfully – all three of whom were looking remarkably well-rested, considering the earliness of the hour. This fact only added to the growing theory most of the Warbler boys held that their three council leaders were in fact highly-programed automatrons.

"Are all Warblers present?" Wes continued, his dark eyes scanning the leather couches and armchairs keenly, taking in all his fellow members and their varying forms of early-morning disarray. He frowned. "Warbler Blaine!"

Blaine, who had his elbow propped against an armrest and his chin rested in his hand, his eyes slightly glassy as he stared sleepily off into nothing, gave a start and looked guiltily up at his friend. "Hmm?"

"Where's Warbler Kurt this morning?" Wes did not sound amused; he was a stickler when it came to Warbler meetings and rehearsals, and did not enjoy straying from his carefully drawn-up timelines. Many a Warbler boy had received an over-zealous thwap to the head courtesy of Wes' gavel after turning up late for a Warbler meeting.

Blaine glanced blearily around the room, brow furrowed. It was a testament to how little sleep the boy had received the previous night, if he had yet to notice his boyfriend was not present. He looked back to Wes, shrugged weakly, and offered a meek, "Traffic?" before returning to his previous position of head-supported-by-hand-supported-by-armrest, and staring into nothing once more.

Wes sighed expressively through his nose, seriously displeased, before turning to his fellow council members.

"We can't start the meeting with a Warbler missing," he told them brusquely. He picked up his gavel and began rolling it between his fingers weightily; it was a gesture he often used to help keep himself calm. "What should we do?"

Thad, who had always tended toward the more dramatic end of the spectrum, immediately suggested, "Search party?"

"He's only late by two minutes," David, always the level-headed one of the group, pointed out reasonably, not looking up from his task of rifling through an intimidatingly large stack of papers. "I could have sworn I'd put last meeting's minutes in here," he muttered to himself, brow knitting together above his brown eyes as he searched.

"David, we go through this at the beginning of every meeting," Wes said, aiming an irritated scowl at his best friend, and brandishing the end of his gavel at him. "Like I always tell you, file folders are your friends! Seriously, you are the most unorganized secretary ever to be elected onto a Warbler council."

"I'm not unorganized!" David protested immediately, pausing in his feverish search to glare woundedly at his best friend. "Everything is always exactly where I left it."

Wes quirked an eyebrow. "Which would be …?"

"… Um." David floundered for a breath. He gestured haphazardly to the teetering pile of notes in front of him. "Well, obviously I've developed an intricate system your more feeble mind could never understand."

"Is that a page of your Napoleonic Wars essay?" Thad asked with interest, reaching across Wes to grab one of the papers.

David had the grace to look slightly abashed as Thad slid the loose-leaf over to his side of the highly-polished table for closer inspection. He scratched the back of his neck as he mumbled, "I was wondering where that went."

"It's dated for November," Thad smirked, pointing out the date on the header to Wes, who rolled his eyes and smirked.

"Very intricate system, I see," he said dryly. "It's a wonder you manage to lose anything." To which David grumbled something about "sabotage," before pulling his messenger bag up from its resting place next to his chair and diving headfirst into its depths.

Shaking his head sadly, Wes pulled out his watch, examining its face critically. "It's been four and a half minutes," he told Thad, his expression pinched with annoyance. "We could have read last week's minutes by now if he'd -" He cut himself off, glanced over at David, who had dumped the entire contents of his bag onto the table and was now meticulously picking his way through it, and reconsidered. "Well, we could have had roll call done and over with, anyway." He glanced around the room once more, where all of the other members were still sitting in silence, their expressions dazed and vacant as each boy attempted (with no success) to sleep with their eyes open. "If we wait any longer for Kurt the rest of them will be passed out cold." A loud, grunting snore issued from a corner of the room, as if to emphasize his point. "As much as it pains me to say it, we'll just have to start without him."

"I concur," Thad said, nodding his head in agreement, and before Wes could react, he grabbed the gavel from under the Head council member's hand and whapped it smartly against the table.

"This meeting of the Warblers has officially come to order," he declared pompously. Surprisingly, everyone in the room seemed to pull themselves out of their stupors, each boy blinking bemusedly up at the council table, momentarily stupefied by the sight of Council member Thad in possession of _the gavel_. Thad himself seemed surprised by his own daring; he looked from the gavel in his hand to the avid faces of the Warblers, then back to the gavel. He spun it around in his hands a few times, whistling lowly. "Behold the _power _..." he whispered in awe, a shockingly salacious grin slowly spreading across his features as an endless amount of future scenarios involving him and a gavel began unraveling in his head. He twirled the gavel a second time. "I could get used to _this_."

"Yeah, well, _don't,_" Wes growled, before snatching his precious gavel out of Thad's unworthy grasp and effectively ending the attempted coup with one loud, crisp bang of the mallet. The sound echoed around the room much more impressively than Thad's own _thwack _had; several of the less comatose Warbler boys jumped in their seats with fright and stared wildly around the room.

Wes did not notice this, however; he was too busy frowning reprovingly at his fellow council member. "Only the Head Council member gets to use the gavel, Thad," he told him sternly. "It's in the rulebook. You know this."

Thad opened his mouth to retort – possibly to point out that the only reason Wes had been elected Head of Council was because he was tallest and most likely to be swayed by bribery (never mind the fact _he _was the one who introduced the gavel amendment to the Charter in the first place) – but he never got the chance to speak. At that precise moment the two large, intricately carved mahogany doors to the left of them swung open dramatically, and the tall, slim silhouette of Kurt Hummel stepped into the room. The fashionable young Warbler was wearing an immaculately-kept Dalton uniform expertly accessorized with a Burberry scarf and a designer satchel slung over one shoulder, holding a to-go coffee cup in each hand.

"Good morning, fellow Warblers," he greeted breezily, pausing in the doorway and smiling broadly around the room, looking as bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as the three senior council members. Kurt's grin widened as he took in the glazed looks and tousled hair of his fellow Glee club members. "What a_ fine _spring morning this is, hmm?" The wind howled and pelted sleet and rain against the mullioned windows as he spoke. "It's so _invigorating _waking up before the sun."

Some of the glazed looks turned stony, but Kurt was only spared a moment to snicker at the other boys' expenses, because Blaine, who had perked up and looked around the moment he heard Kurt's voice, immediately zoned in on the identical coffee cups held in the slender boy's hands. His previous exhaustion totally forgotten, he vaulted the back of the overstuffed leather loveseat he had been squeezed onto with Trent and Jeff, nearly bowling his boyfriend over in his eagerness to reach him.

Luckily, Kurt wasn't too bothered by this. "Whoa, down boy," he smirked, his balance tipping precariously onto the backs of his heels as he tried to prevent the two of them from collapsing in a heap. Through some tricky hip maneuvering and a deft wrist-twirl, Kurt managed to both stay upright and not spill coffee on either of them, though it had been a near miss with the way Blaine kept scrabbling desperately at the cups in his hands. "Here," Kurt said, laughing lightly and passing Blaine one of the paper cups. "Medium drip with non-fat milk and enough sugar to make the fact it's a coffee completely redundant."

Blaine's expression was near blissful as he latched onto the hot drink. "Oh, beautiful, where have you been all my life?" he crooned, and Kurt felt his cheeks flush pleasantly at his boyfriend's words …

… Until he realized Blaine was speaking to the coffee.

Kurt waited a few beats, but when it became apparent no other greeting would be offered by the curly-haired Warbler, he frowned and crossed his arms petulantly. "'Good morning, Kurt, you're looking dashing this morning. Is that scarf new?' 'Why, yes it is, Blaine, you keen-eyed fellow, you,'" he snarked, a hip jutting out as he tapped his foot against the marble floor. "'Thank you so much for being the thoughtful, talented, and gorgeous boyfriend you are by bringing me my morning dose of caffeine, just the way I like it.' 'Oh, it was no trouble at all, Blaine darling, I only had to drive _ten minutes _out of my way to get it."

Blaine didn't respond to Kurt's sass; he was much too busy hunching protectively over his coffee and glaring suspiciously around the room, as though fearful one of his fellows would try to strong-arm the drink away from him if he let his guard down.

"Warbler Kurt." At the tartness in Wes' tone, Kurt suppressed an eye-roll, before turning to face the council table. At the beginning of Kurt's transfer to Dalton, he would have been mortified and embarrassed by having Wes' I-am-supreme-ruler-of-Warblerville-and-mightily-annoyed-at-your-subordination voice directed at him, but over four months later, and this was no longer the case. Being friends with Blaine had equated to lots of time spent dealing with Wes, and Kurt had realized early on that, as prim and proper as the senior boy appeared while in uniform, that was where the resemblance to sane ended. Wes was an anomaly: he was a high-strung individual _before _his morning cocktail of two Red Bulls and a Flintstone vitamin (for nourishment); highly intelligent, in a mad scientist sort of way; goal-oriented in the sense he made bucket lists pertaining to how to complete bucket lists; and was so over-the-top dramatic even _Kurt _had on occasion found himself embarrassed on Wes' behalf. Throw a gavel and an impressive ability to go days without sleep into the equation, and Kurt oftentimes found himself making striking comparisons between the tall senior boy and a rabid badger.

But Kurt was nothing if not cunning, and he had been at Dalton long enough by now to learn that Gavel-Toting Wes also had his weaknesses. A penchant for all things covered in nacho cheese, a debilitating fear of arachnids, and a secret stash of Spice Girl memorabilia hidden in the back of Wes' closest that even _David _didn't know about were all the tools Kurt needed to properly deal with the Head Warbler's theatrics.

And so it was with an easy smile and a look of unconcern that Kurt responded, "Yes, Head Warbler Wes?" not even flinching a little bit when Wes' expression turned stormy at his nonchalance.

"Warbler Kurt, you are –" Wes checked his watch – "six minutes, forty-three seconds late." Wes' tone was so formal and grave, Kurt would not have been surprised if he was pronounced under arrest next. "Care to explain your blatant disregard for our scheduled meeting time this morning, which was six-thirty sharp?"

Kurt arched a delicate eyebrow. "Is the fact I live nearly two hours away and had to wake up at three o'clock this morning just to make it here on time a warranted excuse?" He noticed a few of the Warblers – David and Thad included – were gawking at him disbelievingly.

"You've been up since _three_?" Nick, who was sitting by himself on one of the couches and still looking a bit green, gasped in shock. "What the hell for?"

Kurt motioned to his wardrobe and hair as though it were obvious. "Perfection doesn't ensemble itself, you know."

Unfortunately, Wes wasn't buying it. "You would have made it on time had you not stopped for coffee first," he pointed out, gesturing to the cup in Kurt's hand with his gavel, the contents of which held Kurt's usual grande non-fat mocha.

_Damn_. Why hadn't Kurt thought of that? "I would have been late irregardless of the coffee stop, because of the construction trucks," he backpedaled smoothly, thinking fast. As little as he actually found Wes intimidating – it was hard to, when you knew for a fact the eighteen-year-old was deathly afraid of spiders and still slept with his baby blanket – the Head Warbler had been known to stick members on probation for lesser infractions, such as hiding his gavel, or sneezing off-key. Probation meant no chance for solos, and though the Warblers' competition season was over, they had a performance at a local nursing home approaching, and Kurt had had his eye on one of the lead singing parts for weeks.

"Construction trucks?" David, who had been on his hands and knees underneath the council table searching for his elusive minutes, poked his head up, intrigued.

"They're scattered all over the student lot, taking up most of the parking spots," Kurt informed the Warblers, all of whom were boarders, and so would not have noticed anything unusual in the car park. "I was nearly challenged to a round of automotive fisticuffs by Andrew Harlington over one the last free spots closest to the buildings. As if he'd win," Kurt added as an aside, laughing derisively. "He drives a _Kia_."

A smattering of intrigued murmuring had broken out amongst the Warblers. It had been ages since something as interesting as _construction trucks _appeared on the school's campus. The prospect of what they were there for was an exciting piece of news for many of the boys; a fact that spoke volumes about the fascinating lives the Dalton Academy boys led. "What're they here for?" Devon, a tenor with the most severe sweep of bangs Kurt had ever laid eyes on, wondered curiously.

Kurt flicked a bit of lint off his blazer as he shrugged nonchalantly, though he secretly relished having the attention of the room. "Looks like they're about to start construction near the library. I have pictures," he added, as he spotted Wes' deeply skeptical look. Kurt pulled out his phone. "I figured you'd want proof."

But Wes held up a hand. "That won't be necessary, Kurt," he said, though he sounded slightly torn. Kurt had the sneaking suspicion Wes really _did _want to see the evidence supporting Kurt's story, but the impulse to get back on track with his very important schedule must have proved too strong, because after only a very brief whispered conversation with Thad and David, he continued grudgingly, "We'll let you off with a warning this time, Warbler Kurt, but try not to make tardiness a habit." He banged his gavel upon the table, as though to make his decision official.

Kurt smiled demurely and mock-curtsied. "You're too generous, Head Warbler Wes," he said, before gently nudging Blaine more fully into the room. Kurt didn't know whether to be irritated or amused that his boyfriend had completely ignored his showdown with High Judge Wes, as preoccupied as he was with waxing poetic to his coffee.

"Sweet caffeinated drink, how do I love thee? Let me count the ways ..."

Kurt didn't bother hiding his eye-roll this time. "Thank you so much for your support, Blaine," he muttered sarcastically, though he wasn't entirely sure Blaine heard him; the shorter boy was currently taking another sip of coffee, eyes closed in rapture. Kurt snorted loudly at the look on Blaine's face, and the noise seemed to awaken the other from his caffeine-induced torpor, for he glanced back and grinned apologetically. Blaine's warm eyes sparkled with a fervor he had been lacking prior to Kurt's arrival (and the consumption of much-needed caffeine), and Kurt's annoyance with him swiftly melted away when Blaine hooked his fingers through the cuff on the taller boy's blazer and pulled him over to the loveseat he had previously vacated.

"You, beloved Bringer of Coffee, get the comfy spot," Blaine proclaimed, releasing Kurt's sleeve so he could gesture to the leather cushion with a fanciful bow. Kurt took the proffered seat, finding himself trying to stifle one of those abhorrent sappy expressions that were quickly becoming his trademark. Alas, stupidly ardent gawking was a risk one ran, he supposed, when dating such an adorably enthusiastic person like Blaine. Kurt set his coffee down on the low table in front of his knees as Blaine perched on the edge of the armrest beside him, then swung his messenger bag up and over his head, placing it neatly by his feet.

Jeff, who was sitting at the other end of the loveseat, reached across the back of the sofa and clapped Kurt good-naturedly on the shoulder. "Nice dodge, Kurt," he whispered with a wink. "For a minute there I was sure Wes was going to call for a full trial."

"Has he done that before?" Kurt whispered back with interest, grinning at the thought.

"Only once, right before you joined," Jeff said, a decidedly wicked smile sliding over his face as he spoke. "It was when Blaine tried to convince the council to let him do a Cher number for Sectionals."

There was a spluttering noise above them as Blaine choked on his drink.

"Really?" Kurt looked up, grinning, at his boyfriend, and delighting in the embarrassed blush he spotted staining the other's cheeks.

Jeff nodded sagely. "It's true. Our Blaine's too gay even for a show choir."

Blaine scowled at him. "I still maintain she is a music icon whose career has spanned over four decades, and the crowd would have loved it," he muttered defiantly into his cup.

"Well, obviously that goes without saying," Kurt agreed, and Jeff pretended to vomit over the back of the couch at the lovestruck simper the couple shared. "So were you convicted?" Kurt asked, only half-joking.

Blaine was suddenly very interested in finishing his coffee. "Ah, no, not quite," he hedged as he fidgeted with the cup, swirling the last dregs of coffee around the bottom before downing it.

"Wes decided he wasn't competent enough to stand trial," Jeff revealed, leaning in conspiratorially. "_It's the hair gel_," he stage-whispered to Kurt. He then had to duck to avoid the empty coffee cup Blaine pelted at his head. The cup sailed precariously close to Trent's ear, who was sitting between Kurt and Jeff, and he did not appear happy with the fact, for he shot each of them a scornful look before shushing them loudly.

Kurt glanced down his nose at the boy sitting next to him, his lip curling slightly in disdain. "Problem, Trenton?"

Trent glared heatedly at Kurt. "We are in a _meeting,_" he whispered stiffly, his lips pursed, "and you are being _inappropriate_."

Kurt felt his eyes narrow. Of all the members of the Warblers, Trent was the one Kurt liked the least, and he suspected the feeling was mutual. From Kurt's very first day as a member of Dalton's Glee club, there had been no love lost between the two boys. Trent had been nothing but cool and distant with him since the moment Kurt stepped foot into the Warblers' meeting hall. He always appeared bad-tempered and moody whenever Kurt was near, never addressed Kurt directly if he could help it, and was always one of the first to vote against any of Kurt's song suggestions.

It was perfectly clear to Kurt that Trent would happily see him ran over by a fruit truck, and when he had pointed out this observation to Blaine, the dapper young Warbler – who always assumed the best of everyone – had denied it immediately, and explained to Kurt that Trent was just shy, and did not know how to respond to such a strong, effervescent personality like Kurt's. Kurt, on the other hand, had no qualms with believing in the worst of people, and had convinced himself the reason Trent hated him so much was because the other boy was insanely jealous of Kurt's talent, his flawless complexion, and his relationship with Blaine. Because, as even Blaine needs-a-brick-to-the-face-to-see-the-painfully-obvious Anderson readily admitted, Trent's fervent crush on him _was _painfully obvious to all those who had sight in at least one eye.

Trent's actions, while childish and more than a little tiresome at times, never particularly bothered Kurt, for he had spent over a year confined to a small choir room with Rachel Berry, the ego-maniacal queen of backhanded compliments and ulterior motives. Trent's heated glares and terse mutterings were nothing compared to Rachel's uncanny ability to peel paint with a mere glance, and Kurt was so far from being intimidated by the blustering Warbler, he had outright laughed in the other's face on more than one occasion, as he was constantly finding Trent's weak attempts at intimidation and supremacy amusing … in a sad, pitiable sort of way.

There was shifting beside Kurt as Blaine leaned his hand on the back of the loveseat, his fingers brushing softly across the sensitive skin above Kurt's collar as they moved. Trent's eyes followed the movement acutely, a mixture of repulsion and envy apparent in his gaze, and Kurt felt his dislike for the boy grow exponentially. He briefly contemplated which cutting barb would reduce Trent to tears in the least amount of time, but unfortunately Wes was still glaring in the general direction of the loveseat, and Kurt thought it in his best interests not to get on Wes' bad side twice in one morning.

Wes cleared his throat. "Now that we've all arrived –" A pointed glare in Kurt's direction, which Kurt pretended not to see – "we can begin. Council member David, have you found last meeting's minutes yet?"

David did not answer immediately; he was eying his messenger bag critically, arms crossed and a hand pressed against his mouth in deep contemplation. "I'm ninety-five percent sure my bag devoured them," he announced finally, plainly not yet ready to admit his "intricate system" had flaws.

Wes pressed a hand tiredly to his eyes. "And the other five percent?" he asked, sounding as though he really did not want to know.

David hesitated before admitting, "Warbler Louis may or may not have eaten them."

All eyes swiveled to a boy sitting on the piano bench. "It was an accident!" Louis – a tall, deep-voiced bass with hair so fly-away Kurt couldn't look at it without his eye twitching – leaped to his own defense immediately. "I had no idea it was last week's minutes. David just _gave _them to me." He shifted on the bench uncomfortably under everyone's incredulous gazes. "I was dared to do it!" he finally blurted, pointing an accusing finger at the boy sitting in front of him, who just so happened to be Warbler T.J., the Glee club's resident beat-boxer. "It was all T's idea!"

T.J. grinned toothily and nodded proudly.

"Does this have anything to do with the detention Mr. Robards gave the three of you last Friday?" Devon the tenor asked, grinning wryly as he nudged T.J. in the side with his elbow.

"Robards was overreacting," David replied immediately. "He thought we were feeding Louis our lab notes, which is a _ridiculous _notion."

"More ridiculous than daring a fellow Warbler to eat our minutes_?_" Wes asked, sounding incredulous.

David looked at him uncomprehendingly, and Wes sent a _why me_? expression to the ceiling.

Thad had pulled out his trusty miniature copy of the Warblers Handbook. "I don't think there's anything in here about punishment for eating a meeting's minutes," he murmured to Wes worriedly, running a finger down the index in the back of the book. "Do you think it'd be under 'defacement of important documents'?"

Kurt had to bite his knuckle to keep from laughing at the absurdity of the entire conversation; he glanced up at Blaine, who was politely hiding his smile behind his hand, his hazel eyes crinkling with amusement at his friends' antics. The two boys caught each other's gaze and had to hastily look away to keep from laughing.

It was times like these where Kurt didn't miss the New Directions one bit. McKinley High may have been full to the brim with batty individuals who reveled in creating dramatic situations that more often than not leaned toward the hilariously warped – Coach Sylvester immediately came to mind – but the Warbler boys had their own moments of insanity that could prove equally entertaining. Because, after all, they were private school boys, and the prominent absence of females allowed for them to exercise their stupidity much more freely, without the fear public school boys held of never getting laid if an attractive girl caught them saying or doing something especially moronic.

Eventually, after a heated discussion between the senior council, interspersed by many tap-tappings from Wes' gavel, it was concluded that, since it could not be proved that Louis had indeed swallowed last week's minutes – David fervidly insisted that Louis had in all likelihood ingested his half-finished Latin essay, not the minutes, and that the true culprit was David's messenger bag – no punishment was handed out, and Wes' meeting was finally able to proceed.

"First order of business," Wes began, sounding harried as he read off a sheet of paper with an alarming number of bullets, "involves our performance at the Kingston Retirement Community. We've come up with the positioning for the show."

Silence fell as every boy in the room straightened perceptibly in his seat; they all knew what was coming next. Kurt felt his palms begin to sweat unpleasantly, and he picked up his coffee, sipping at the drink to help quell his nerves. It had better not be his turn again, he thought to himself, glancing around at all the apprehensive faces surrounding him. He hated it when it was his turn, and would do anything within his power to prevent it from _being _his turn. He would fake a serious illness if he had to. Or a broken leg. Hell, he would actually _break _his leg, if it was absolutely necessary.

Wes eyed the Warbler members with just a hint of an amused smirk pulling at the edges of his mouth, before continuing. "After much intense discussion on the part of the senior council, and close examination of the tallyings we have been keeping track of all year, we have come to the conclusion …" he paused for dramatic effect; the Warblers all leaned forward anxiously, waiting with baited breath, "… that it is Warbler Trent's turn to stand in front Warbler T.J. during the performance."

As one, the Warblers let out a collective sigh of relief and relaxed back into their chairs; that is, all except for Trent, who immediately cried out, "Injustice!" and slapped a hand against his knee in frustration. Kurt smirked at him gloatingly, taking in the other boy's furious flush with delight. In Kurt's mind, it was perfectly fitting that stuck-up Trent be the one who had to endure T.J. beat-boxing saliva all over the back of his neck and hair for three song numbers.

More shifting beside him, and then Blaine was resting his hand on Kurt's shoulder as he leaned down to whisper in his ear, "Be nice, Kurt. It could have just as easily been you."

"Don't rain on my parade, Blaine," Kurt murmured back, still grinning gleefully. "He's irritating and deserves it."

Blaine shook his head at him as he leaned away, smiling faintly.

"Next order of business," Wes called out, consulting his list closely. "Auditions for the three leads in our Kingston Retirement Community performance will be held a week from Friday. Warbler David has the sign-up sheet …" Wes paused to eye all the loose papers strewn across the council table warily. "… and a second sign-up sheet will be posted just inside the door, as a precaution.

"Council member Thad would like to remind everyone that, while he appreciates all the feedback you have been supplying the senior council via our newly implemented suggestion box, he will be forced to dismantle it if you do not stop with the '_More Gaga_' spamming."

Kurt lifted his chin haughtily as all eyes in the room swiveled to him at these words. "I'm not the only gay in the room, you know," he intoned dryly, crossing his legs and leaning back in his seat, examining his nails as he added, "And I'm insulted by your presumption." He smirked with satisfaction as the other boys turned away from him, properly chagrined. Kurt felt it really was of no consequence that the Lady Gaga submissions most likely _had _all come from him.

It was the principle of the thing.

* * *

><p>"I thought the meeting went well," Kurt commented offhandedly to Blaine, sometime later, as the two of them slowly made their way through the throng of similarly-clad Dalton boys in the direction of their first classes of the day. "There was hardly any crying this time."<p>

"There would have been even less if you hadn't insisted on goading Trent so much," Blaine pointed out, his exasperated tone not matching up with the affectionate tweak he gave Kurt's elbow as they squeezed their way through a particularly rambunctious group of uniformed students.

Kurt rolled his eyes impatiently, hitching the strap of his bag more securely onto his shoulder as he retorted, "The insufferable twit had it coming. Didn't you see the way he bared his teeth every time you so much as breathed in my direction?"

"He was just upset about being stuck in front of T.J. for the performance –"

"Oh please, Blaine. Trenton morphs into the green-eyed monster every time he sees us together. Everyone sees it. He is _seething _with jealousy. Practically frothing at the mouth with it."

"Don't exaggerate, Kurt …"

"Don't be so naïve, _Blaine._ The boy is in serious lust with you. Not that I blame him, or anything." He bumped his shoulder playfully into the dark-haired boy's. "You're the catch of the school."

Blaine smiled widely at this, clearly pleased; there was jostling from behind them, and the shorter boy glided his hand into the small of Kurt's back, ushering him along gently as he added, "But was it really _necessary _to imply his voice sounded like Miley Cyrus after a botched tracheotomy?"

Kurt sniffed and lifted his chin, unrepentant. "He touched my hair."

"Kurt." Blaine's voice was pained. "That was me."

Kurt felt his mouth drop open in horror. "_You_? Oh – sorry," he apologized absently to the boy whose back he had walked into, as he had been too busy gawking incredulously at his boyfriend to notice the congestion slowly building in the crowded hallway. He pinched Blaine on the arm as the other chortled at his inattention. "I can't believe you _touched _my _hair_, Blaine," he continued in a whisper, dismayed. "Didn't we agree that no hands above the neck was a necessary rule in helping to keep our relationship harmonious and healthy?" He blinked in surprise when Blaine, instead of hanging his head in remorse, looked up at him with a distinctly lascivious smirk in place.

"Remind me again: everywhere else is fair game, correct?" he murmured suggestively, and the air was unceremoniously sucked out of Kurt's lungs when he noted the very _un_dapper way Blaine was eying him. Kurt glanced edgily around the bustling corridor as he resisted the strong urge to loosen his blue-and-red striped tie, which was feeling very constricting all of a sudden. Kurt was fairly new to the art of flirting, and while he was far from complaining, he also couldn't help but think that the middle of an overly-crowded hallway full of their fellow students wasn't exactly a prime location to practice. However, when an arm slid around his waist and pulled him closer, Kurt stopped thinking altogether as half of his mental faculties abruptly deserted him, leaving him feeling slow-witted and uncomfortably hot.

Blaine was very obviously proud of the reaction he had elicited from Kurt, as his voice was full of suppressed mirth when he continued, "I'm very fond of our 'no hands above the neck' rule, Kurt."

"You didn't seem so fond of that rule Friday night." Kurt was impressed with himself; he had managed the quip with only the barest of breathy giggles, and hadn't sounded at all like the majority of his brain had begun oozing out of his ears the moment Blaine wrapped his arm around him – which in actuality was what he felt like. And looked like, probably.

There was a groan beside him, and Blaine was peering up at him, looking pained once more. "You're terrible at flirty conversation," he accused Kurt petulantly, his lower lip sticking out in a pout. "Why you would want to bring up one of the most emotionally scarring evenings of my life …"

Kurt rolled his eyes, muttering, "And _I'm _the dramatic one." He laughed when Blaine glowered at him, his pout even more pronounced. He fought the temptation to lean over and kiss it away. Instead he flicked the offending lips with his fingers as he said, "It wasn't _that _bad."

Blaine shot him an incredulous look. "Your father wants me dead," he told him seriously.

Kurt waved his boyfriend's statement away airily. "He does not. He likes you, I could tell." Which was only a half-lie. While Burt had made it perfectly clear he had no qualms with drawing and quartering Blaine should he ever prove himself to be less than the perfect gentleman around his son, Kurt decided the fact his father hadn't ended Blaine's life prematurely when he caught them kissing on the couch at the end of the night as a sure sign of growing affection.

Clearly Blaine had not come to the same conclusions. "He told me he knew how to make my death look like an accident," he intoned flatly, a dark brow raised, and Kurt thought the abundance of fear clearly written on the other boy's face completely – well, mostly unwarranted. Burt _had _gone into a great amount of detail about it, after all …

"Carole adores you," Kurt pointed out, which was very true: Carole had switched over to Team Blaine the minute he complimented her cooking, and the fondness had only grown with every charming, albeit slightly manic, smile Blaine shot her way. She had been the one to convince Burt that leaving Kurt and Blaine alone in the house for a few hours would not be the final nail in the coffin of his son's virtue (and it certainly hadn't been, with the way Blaine kept jumping up from the couch every time the house creaked, wide-eyed with terror). Kurt was also convinced his step-mother was the sole reason his father had only called his cell phone every fifteen minutes ("_just to check in_,") as opposed to every five.

"Your step-mom's great," Blaine fervently agreed. "She was the only one who didn't send me death glares once during the entire night." He paused, before adding slightly accusingly, "Even _you _can't say that."

Kurt drew himself up indignantly. "Well, if you hadn't implied Judy Garland sounded off-key during _Somewhere Over the Rainbow _– which is quite possibly the most mental thing I have ever heard you say, by the way, and that's including your drunken analysis of potted plants and how they define interior design during the ride home from Rachel's party –"

They had arrived at Blaine's classroom. They lingered next to the door for a few minutes, holding hands and fighting smiles as they bickered over the importance of indoor foliage. When the first bell rang, signaling that Kurt had exactly three minutes to climb four flights of stairs before he was considered tardy and thus detention fodder, they reluctantly untangled their fingers and stepped away from each other.

"See you during first break?" Kurt asked, hitching his bag further up his shoulder and trying his hardest not to sound too obviously lovesick.

"Can't." Blaine sounded deeply regretful. He reached forward absently and straightened Kurt's lapel for him, and Kurt didn't even bother trying to restrain his foolish smile at the effortlessness of the gesture. "My floor monitor roped me into showing around a new transfer kid who's moving onto our floor. Join me for lunch, though?"

"Lunch," Kurt agreed with a smile, though he could hear the disappointment in his own voice. He perked up slightly as he teased, "I hope you're not planning on serenading this one with the dulcet tones of Katy Perry like you did the last transfer student."

"I only pull out the Perry for especially bad spies." Blaine shot him one of _those _grins, and Kurt worried that all the skipping his heart had been doing lately could not be considered healthy.

Blaine glanced up and down the hallway to ensure there were no teachers present, then stepped forward and kissed Kurt swiftly. Before pulling away completely, he murmured into Kurt's ear, "I can promise you that Mr. –" he dug around in his pocket for a piece of paper, peering at the name scribbled there – "Casey Dewitt doesn't hold a candle to my fabulous boyfriend."

When Kurt sidled into his seat next to Jeff precisely two minutes and thirty seven seconds later, under the wrathful gaze of Madame Gerbere, he was still smiling hugely.

"Cutting it a little close," Jeff whispered to him in an undertone. "Was parting from dear Blaine particularly sorrowful this morning?"

Kurt didn't answer Jeff immediately. He began pulling out his textbook and notes automatically, his mind still outside in the corridor where a cute boy with gorgeous eyes and a killer smile had held his hand, kissed him without a thought, and referred to him as his fabulous boyfriend.

His smile so wide he momentarily feared his entire face would split in half, Kurt turned to Jeff and asked brightly, "Do you prefer chocolate or vanilla cake?"

* * *

><p><strong>AN#2: <strong>I forgot to mention above how much I absolutely ADORE everyone's reviews. Especially the one from Bertlover - I will never, ever, consider a review too long! You guys are the best, and are absolutely spoiling me with such awesomeness. I will love you all forever if you take a second to let me know what you thought about this chapter.


	4. Chapter Four: An Excess of Testosterone

**Disclaimer: **None is mine. Shame, that.

**AN: **I am a horrible person. I know I am. I can't believe how ridiculously long it took me to get this chapter out. Two weeks? Really? I should be ashamed of myself. However, in my defense, I will say that work has been hectic, home life has been crazy, the weather has been ... well, typical for Ohio, and my seasonal allergies left my head feeling disconnected from my body for three straight days. Poor excuses, I know, but thanks for being patient with me. You guys all rock, your reviews are my favorite part of the day, and I am sure I will have the next chapter up in a much more timely manner for you guys.

I can't quite shake the feeling that I should be prefacing this chapter with the warning that what I'm about to do with my story is going to seem wildly AU and terribly unrealistic and _something that just doesn't happen in real life _(which, in all actuality, is simply _not true_, because I read about this one case in the city I grew up where – not the point), but please bear with me. I have a method to my madness, I promise. This story is extensively(ish) outlined, and all of this is happening for a reason.

And just so we're clear: I'm a closeted romantic, and very much _not _an angst writer. At all. Just … keep that in mind, if by the end of this chapter you start to feel suspicious.

Well, here goes nothing …

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Four: An Excess of Testosterone<strong>

"No, Nick."

"... Come on, Kurt, just a little peek ..."

"_No_, Nick."

"I'll get them back to you before Warblers rehearsal tomorrow, I promise –"

"The last time I lent you my notes, they came back covered in an unknown substance. A _green _and _sticky_, unknown substance."

"Funny story, that, and totally not my fault. See, Russ and David were baking cupcakes ..."

"The time before _that_, my notes didn't come back at _all_."

"Again, funny story. You remember that paper airplane Wes confiscated from Zach after he'd flown it into Louis' hair?" A protracted pause. "Aw, come on, dude, help me out here. I'm already behind after being out for a week with the flu –"

"Nicholas, any sympathy I might have held for you died an inglorious death the second you referred to me as 'dude'."

"But I only need the last bit, that part about the one dude who killed that other dude over a chicken or whatever –"

The shoulder bag of a student passing in the opposite direction bumped into Kurt, knocking him slightly askew. Huffing in annoyance, he reached up to fix his hair, his expression unimpressed as he asked Nick archly, "A chicken, Nick? Really? You didn't hear a word of today's lecture, did you?"

"I did so!" Nick's protest was emphatic, and also a blatant lie, and they both knew it. Nick sat in the seat diagonal to Kurt's during their World History class, and Kurt had seen for himself how his fellow Warbler had spent the entirety of their lesson gazing wistfully out of one of the four arched, floor-to-ceiling windows situated on the far wall, watching in apparent fascination as the rain and ice spattered against the paned glass. Kurt knew Nick had not been paying one bit of attention to their teacher for the whole lecture, and he knew Nick knew he knew, so when he continued to gaze at the other boy cynically without saying anything, Nick's next excuse died in his throat, and his shoulders slumped dejectedly.

"It's not my fault, Kurt, really." He sounded miserable and contrite. "I just can't concentrate in that room." He waved vaguely over his shoulder in the direction they had just left. "I try to pay attention, I really do, it's just … there's so many _eyes_, man, you know?"

Kurt did indeed know. Though he himself still managed to take precise, thorough, evenly-measured notes (color-coded and cross-referenced, naturally) every lecture with little difficulty, Kurt could understand how others would find the World History classroom slightly … discomfiting. Their history teacher, one Mrs. Dunmore, was an old, slightly senile woman who had been teaching at Dalton Academy for nearly five decades. The widow of one of the more prestigious Headmasters of Dalton - which explained her continued presence at the school, even after years of basing her grading scale upon how "scruffy" the boys' hairstyles were - Mrs. Dunmore was short and stooped, with wispy white hair, a willowy bone structure, and such a wobbling lilt to her voice it was almost completely impossible to understand a word she spoke. She was one of three female faculty members currently employed at the school (apart from Madame Gerbere the French teacher, and Miss Stapleton, the school nurse), and had, for reasons known only to her increasingly failing mind, decided to decorate her classroom with rose-patterned china pieces, moth-eaten doilies, and painting after painting of _cats_. Portraits of austere-looking Persians, sitting primly on purple silk cushions; water-colors of tabby and calico kittens frolicking in green pastures; intricately sewn tapestries depicting images of the regal Siamese, or of the noble Russian blue – any and every cat breed one could possibly think of, Mrs. Dunmore had a rendering of it somewhere in her classroom. They were all hung at varying heights and angles against the wainscoting, leaving absolutely no space of wall uncovered, and effectively ensuring that every student sitting in the room would feel dozens of unblinking, yellow-green stares boring holes into the back of their head, making the hairs on their arms and neck stand on end, and leaving them feeling jittery and sick with paranoia.

"Have you ever counted them?" Nick continued, his own eyes widening with fright, and Kurt was rather impressed with the (as far as he knew) totally heterosexual male's courage in openly displaying his aversion to a pack of painted kittens. "Ninety-seven! Ninety-seven pairs of eyes, Kurt, and all of them _staring _at us." Nick shook his head faintly, as if trying to dispel the disturbing images from his head. "How are you not weirded out by that?"

"How do you not care enough about your history grade to ignore the gazes of a few imaginary felines?" Kurt countered pointedly, pulling absently at the shoulder strap of his bag as he and Nick wended their way down the long, marble hallway. It was lunchtime, and the two boys were slowly progressing along the packed corridor with their fellow students, shuffling along with the loud, raucous crowd in the direction of the spiral staircase that would lead them down to the ground floor and, ultimately, to the dining hall.

Nick stumbled over a non-existent bump in the floor, which was a fairly common occurrence with him. He claimed his solar plexus was off-kilter due to an unmentionable childhood incident involving a Great Dane and a ceiling fan, but Kurt was skeptical. It seemed to him as though Nick simply couldn't be bothered to pick up his feet far enough when walking.

"There is nothing imaginary about those cats, man," Nick muttered darkly to Kurt, once he had regained his footing. He shifted his books from beneath one arm to the other in an agitated manner. "They are _demonic. _I'm being serious!" he cried, when Kurt merely snorted in amusement at his hysteria. "They sense my fear, Kurt, and one of these days they'll use it against me. I have dreams about them stalking me in the dead of night, and I swear I've seen that freaky Maine Coon portrait blink at me."

Kurt remained silent, rolling his eyes indulgently as Nick continued on with his theatrics. Even though Nick was one of the Warbler members he had lost his first Warbler solo audition to (a rigged audition, Kurt was sure of it), Kurt found it surprisingly easy to like him. Aside from a poor immune system, an inability to keep foodstuffs away from important papers, and an unfortunate habit of convincing himself inanimate objects were out to destroy him, the boy had a bright, easy-going personality. In a way, Nick sometimes even reminded Kurt of his step-brother: like Finn, Nick's bounding energy, propensity for tripping over even the flattest of surfaces, and shaggier-than-average hair always put Kurt in mind of a particularly large-pawed, floppy-eared puppy, eager to please and always looking to make friends.

Nick was muttering to himself now, wholly fixated on _the eyes _as they began descending the spiral staircase. Easily ignoring his companion's brief departure from the land of the sane, Kurt took in their surroundings and had to bite back a smile, his stomach and heart fluttering as they always did whenever he approached the very steps he had caught his first sight of his boyfriend, Blaine. The sweeping, elegant spiral staircase – along with its stained-glass domed ceiling – was Kurt's favorite area in the entire school, and not only because of his accidental encounter with a certain dapper lead soloist - though that did have a lot to do with it. The all-marble staircase was easily the grandest feature in the main school building, and Kurt could admire all the money and man hours it must have taken the original architects to create such an impressive, intricately designed stairwell, though admittedly it did puzzle him why they had felt such a grandiose statement was necessary in an all-boy's private school. It was mostly the nostalgic, lover-of-musicals, sappily romantic side of Kurt's brain that had him almost convinced the curved steps and contrasting iron banister had been designed specifically for his and Blaine's first encounter, no matter what Thad and his _Guide to Everything Ever Known About Dalton Academy, Most of Which is Completely Useless Information _said, and Kurt constantly found himself making excuses to pass by that particular set of stairs; and though Kurt would kiss Rachel Berry before ever admitting it, his daily route to and from class was twice as long as it needed to be, just so he could spring up and down those stairs in an embarrassingly giddy manner, four times a day, humming "Teenage Dream" to himself as he did so.

They were passing one of the long mirrors hanging against the wall, and Kurt, who happened to glance over the top of Nick's head, nearly winced at the so obviously _smitten _look he caught his reflection wearing. Usually Kurt would have put much more effort into keeping his amorous idiocy at a minimum (zero-bullying policy aside, the boys of Dalton took any and every opportunity presented to make each other squirm with embarrassment), had he not had it on good authority – and Wes and David could be considered as such, especially when they had YouTube footage as proof – that Blaine had been caught multiple times staring dreamily at the staircase as he walked past, resulting in a painful collision with a nearby wall on more than one occasion.

Needless to say, hearing that little nugget of information had added an extra bounce to Kurt's step that had yet to completely fade away, not to mention a new Top Watched video to his YouTube playlist.

When they reached the ground floor, Kurt turned to his companion once more, and saw that Nick was still mumbling morosely to himself, head hung despairingly as he dragged the soles of his shiny black loafers against the shimmering floor. Kurt would be lying if he said he didn't feel a tad smug at his friend's expense – after all, Kurt didn't exactly experience the warm and fuzzies while sitting in that mad woman's class for fifty minutes, yet _he _still managed to take notes, thank you very much – but after a few more minutes of silence between the pair, in which Nick sighed despondently half a dozen times and tripped twice more, Kurt soon found himself rolling his eyes again, huffing slightly as he unclasped the bag situated against his hip and searched through its contents for his history notes.

"If these come back to me in less than the pristine condition I left them, I will not be held accountable for my actions, got it?" He thrust the notebook into Nick's surprised hands. "Not a _wrinkle_, Nick, you hear me?"

Nick's face lit up at once with a relieved smile. "Thanks, Kurt, I owe you one," he replied gratefully, eagerly flipping to the middle of the book. His eyes landed on one of the pages, and the Warbler stopped in his tracks, staring down at the paper dumbly. The boys behind him grumbled and shouldered their way past, but Nick paid them no mind, too busy focusing on Kurt's notebook with what seemed to be avid fascination. Kurt, who had stopped walking when Nick had, watched with curiosity and just a little impatience as the other boy leaned in closer, squinted his eyes carefully, then straightened back with a startled guffaw. Kurt's brow shot to his hairline, noting how Nick's ears tinged pink as the other boy clapped a hand over his mouth, not quite muffling the snort that escaped him. Confused by Nick's bizarre behavior, and wondering what in the name of all things cashmere his history notes contained that could possibly have the other boy snickering like that, Kurt peered over his friend's shoulder at the page in question, which so happened to be dated for the twelfth of February. Instantly, Kurt felt his face flood with heat. Damn it all, he had completely forgotten about that particular doodle ...

The look on Nick's face would have been priceless, had it not been solely at Kurt's expense. His eyes were positively _glowing _with suppressed mirth as he noted lightly, "Real-life Blaine isn't anywhere near as flexible as this one." He was clearly struggling to keep a straight face as he said this, and Kurt wanted nothing more than to sink through the marble floor as he watched the other boy turn the notebook sideways and scrutinize the sketch carefully, not unlike a museum curator would with a fine piece of art. "It's cute how you made him taller, though."

Humiliated that his wildly imaginative, bordering on obsessive caricatures of him and Blaine pre-earth-shattering-kiss had been seen by an another's eyes – and, dear Prada, why did it have to be _Nick_, of all people? – Kurt snatched the notebook out of Nick's hands, certain his face had turned a shade of red only clowns and serial killers could pull off. Ignoring Nick's indignant yelp, he jabbed a finger into his fellow Warbler's chest.

"Mention this to anyone, and you will regret it." He feared the threat was lessened by the fact that, in his embarrassment, his voice had risen into the dreaded Mickey Mouse range. "I mean it, Nick. I have friends much bigger than you who owe me favors."

Nick was openly laughing by this point, which was unfortunately very much _not_ the cowering in fear reaction Kurt had been hoping for, and he scowled heavily at the other boy as he shoved his notebook back into his bag, his neck and face completely on fire by this point. Nick could forget about ever borrowing _his _notes again, Kurt thought to himself, crossing his arms and glaring down at the shaking form in front of him, which was nearly doubled over as Nick chortled heartily. Kurt cursed silently as he felt himself flush to the roots of his hair. Why, oh why hadn't he destroyed those drawings when he'd had the chance?

Nick's loud guffaws were beginning to attract the attention and curious gazes of their fellow peers. Just as Kurt began weighing the pros and cons between flouncing away in a dignified rage and socking Nick in the mouth, a loud call of, "Kurt! Nick!" sounded from the other end of the hall. The next moment, Thad had appeared at Kurt's elbow, bag brushing against his leg as he bounced from foot to foot, positively _thrumming _with repressed energy.

"Have you heard the news?" he asked the other two, sounding breathless, his voice quivering with excitement. He was rolling back and forth on the balls of his feet, clasping and unclasping his hands in front of him. "The incredible, fantastic, glorious news?"

One of the first things Kurt had learned at Dalton – other than do not mess with Blaine's haircare routine if you fancy the use of all ten fingers, and never, under any circumstances, feed David after midnight – was that Thad could be a tad … loquacious. He elaborated with an abundance of expressive words and aggressive hand gestures whenever he spoke, had the odd habit of developing a strangely acute English accent when overcome with strong emotion, and as was often the case with a boy who spent the majority of his free time reading a thesaurus in search for more dramatic usage of vocabulary, Thad would spend an inordinate amount of energy building up the suspense in those around him before announcing to all and sundry something disappointingly anti-climatic, like how the restroom on the third floor had run out of moist towelettes, or that Warbler Devon had developed seasonal allergies.

To put it bluntly, Thad was Dalton's residential drama king, and everyone was well aware of this fact.

"Let me guess," Kurt drawled, turning away from Nick, who aside from the occasional hiccup, had managed to regain his composure, "the lunch food committee has finally agreed to your numerous requests for Foie Gras Fridays?"

Thad shook his head in the negative, and the light from the chandeliers hanging above them glinted against the copious amount of product he had rubbed into his hair. "Something infinitely better than that!" he declared, clapping his hands together and beaming. The smile dimmed slightly as he took in Nick's disheveled appearance for the first time. "What's up with you?"

Nick's eyes slid over to Kurt, who did not appreciate the distinctly _mischievous _expression he found there. Instantly wary, Kurt tried to communicate non-verbally the amount of physical and emotional anguish the other would suffer if he said anything, but Nick either did not notice or did not care, because the next words he directed at Thad – "Did you know Kurt's an artist?" – were said with a deceptively innocent smile.

Kurt vowed revenge as Thad glanced between the two of them, confused. He seemed to be on the verge of asking for clarification; Kurt put a stamp to that immediately. "What was that about news?" he cut swiftly across the older boy, while aiming a furtive kick at Nick. The pained grunt Nick emitted had Kurt smiling in grim satisfaction.

Thad still looked puzzled, but never one to turn down an offer to gab, he was soon continuing on with his enthralling tale as though an interruption had never occurred. "Well," he said with relish, "obviously I didn't believe the gossip at first, when Warbler Russ told me because, honestly, he _exaggerates _–" the irony in this statement was not lost on Kurt – "but then I was walking down the science wing just now, and I _saw it_. With my own eyes! Ha!" Thad crowed happily, spreading his arms wide and tipping his head back in exultation. "Isn't this just marvelous?" He laughed exuberantly at the ceiling – so exuberantly, in fact, that many of the boys entering the lunchroom paused to glance over at him in alarm – then lunged, pulling Nick into an over-enthusiastic, fringing-on-inappropriate hug. He tried to drag Kurt in as well, but Kurt dodged his outstretched hand with practiced ease, frowning reprovingly at the other boy. As Kurt had had to explain to the more tactile Warbler boys – multiple times, in Thad's case – he simply did not _do _the rumpled-uniform look.

"Never, in all my years at Dalton, had I ever expected this to happen," Thad continued, blissfully unaware that the tight hold he had around Nick's neck was slowly choking the life out of the shorter boy (though coincidentally, the bluish hue to his friend's face reminded Kurt of those fabulous gloves he simply _had _to buy during his next trip to the mall). "It's not like it's a normal thing to happen, am I right? I mean, sure I've hoped and wished and fantasized about it – because, you know, who _hasn't_? – ah, no offense, Kurt."

"None taken." Kurt nodded as though he understood what the other was talking about – when clearly, he had no idea, seeing as he did not speak Thad-anese– and gestured for him to continue, experience having taught him it was best to let the exceptionally verbose Warbler rattle on until he either ran out of breath, forgot what he was talking about, or became distracted by something else.

"It just makes the day seem so much more … more … _paradisaical, _doesn't it?" Thad gushed, scrunching his eyes and sighing robustly. He mussed Nick's hair affectionately before releasing him from his clutches, and Nick staggered backwards, gasping for air and rubbing gingerly at his neck.

Thad then rounded on Kurt (who took a precautionary step back) and asked in a rush, "So what do you think?" He plundered on before Kurt could respond. "Pretty spectacular news, right? I immediately thought about T.J. when I heard, you know, because of that thing he said that one time we did that incredible rendition of that song – which reminds me, do you guys know if I left my calculator in the meeting hall this morning? It's not important, I don't have calculus today, but when Devon asked to borrow it and it was missing … I should probably find Devon anyway, see if he's heard about the news. He doesn't have lunch this hour, does he? What's his phone number, anyway?"

Thad was speaking so fast by this point his mouth was little more than a pink blur, and Kurt could do nothing more than stare in awe, unable to process exactly what the older boy was saying. Visually, he knew Thad's mouth was opening and noise was being produced, but his ears were having difficulty sorting through all the gibberish to properly translate.

Fortunately, Thad's last question had not required a response, for he had whipped out his phone and was now whistling tunelessly to himself as he quickly scrolled through his contacts list. "Ah, there he is." He pressed a few buttons and lifted the phone to his ear. "I don't know if he'll answer, though, he might still be in Vector's calc cla – hello? Devon! Have you heard the news? I know! Incredible, right? Yeah … yeah, that's what I thought!"

And without so much as another glance at either Kurt or Nick, Thad ambled off, phone pressed to his ear, his free hand gesticulating exorbitantly as he spoke.

When Thad was out of sight, Kurt and Nick glanced at each other, both feeling as though they had just survived through a particularly talkative wind storm. Nick was first to break the silence and when he spoke, he did so slowly, while wearing a bemused expression. "Did I miss something, or did Thad not actually _tell _us what the big news was?"

Nick was correct, of course, though Kurt could not say he was very surprised by this. Thad had a knack for talking circles around people, without ever actually reaching his point. Thad was a _light _thinker (which was Kurt's polite way of calling the boy flighty), and was renowned for leaving conversations midway through, even if they were ones he initiated. The boys of Dalton rarely ever took offense to this mildly abrasive personality quirk, however: they had all grown to expect it from him, and some would go so far as to say they took comfort in Thad's more scatter-brained tendencies. It had sort of become his _thing_.

"I think at this point it's best not to ask," Kurt commented carefully, and he and Nick looked to one another again in silent agreement.

Nick cleared his throat. "You know, I could still really use those history notes ..."

"Nicholas, don't even try."

When Kurt and Nick had recovered enough from their encounter with Hurricane Thad, they entered the dining hall behind a long line of their hungry peers. One sweeping look around the crowded, bustling cafeteria was all Kurt needed to come to the conclusion that Thad was not the only one in the school overcome with sensory overload at the prospect of this so-called "big news." Boys all over the room were hunched over their lunch trays, whispering frantically to their table fellows; necks were craned and ears were perked as some of the students stared at the set of doors leading into the hall, their gazes intense and non-blinking as they waited for who knew what to walk into the room; even a few of the bolder souls had their phones out in plain sight of the beady-eyed lunch monitors, their thumbs flying across the keys as they relayed information back and forth with those of Dalton who were currently in lecture.

But something else, as Kurt soon realized, was off about the lunch room crowd. It had quickly come to his attention that no matter where he looked, boys were behaving very peculiarly. Some were assessing their reflections in the backs of their spoons, others were combing their fingers compulsively through their hair. Blazers were being smoothed down, ties straightened, breath checked and re-checked for freshness; Kurt had to do a double-take when an unfamiliar senior student walked past, stuffing what appeared to be an entire pack of Trident gum into his mouth, wrappers and all. All around Kurt his peers were performing these strange behaviors with only a few slight variations, interspersed with the occasional bout of hysterical guffawing, excessive high-fiving, and an alarming amount of bicep-flexing.

As Kurt took in the scene dubiously, ducking out of the way of a gaggle of boys who were sniffing each other's armpits as they walked past, an outlandish thought stumbled, unbidden, into his mind: Could it be possible that all of these boys were actually … _primping_?

Wes, David, and a handful of other Warblers were waving frantically from their usual table. Kurt slowly weaved through the rowdy crowd toward them (dodging three fist-bumps and a dog pile as he did so), with Nick following closely at his heels.

"Did you hear?" David asked immediately, before Kurt had managed so much as a hello. His words tumbled out with a rushed urgency, and Kurt paused while removing his bag from around his shoulder, staring at him. There was a feverish glint in David's eyes that Kurt did not trust: he looked almost deranged.

"About this supposed 'incredible, fantastic, glorious' news, you mean?" Kurt remarked lightly, recovering himself as he settled down next to Jeff, who was busy leaning all of his weight on the back two legs of his chair, his long arms stretched away from him as he attempted to keep his balance. Kurt sent him a questioning look, but Jeff only grinned in response, his chair wobbling precariously when Nick threw himself into the empty seat on the other side of him.

"I take it you ran into Thad, then?" Wes was smirking at Kurt knowingly, hands resting behind his head in a leisurely manner; he was one of the few people in the room who looked completely unaffected by the turn of gossip. As if to prove this observation, he turned to David and said loftily, "I don't believe it, myself."

David's eyes nearly fell out of his head at Wes' declaration, and several of the other Warblers gasped in shock. "Don't jinx it!" Zach – a thick-bodied blond with the worst dye-job Kurt had ever laid eyes on – yelped from the other side of Nick, and Wes' lips turned inward as he fought a grin. Kurt himself had begun snickering into his hand, but he stopped immediately when David focused his unnervingly intense stare back on him.

"So is it true?" the senior boy pressed, crouching forward over the table, and peering at Kurt in a manner that had him suppressing the urge to scoot his chair back a few inches, at least until he was out of arm's reach.

"Of course it's true," a deep voice interjected, and Kurt saw Louis poke his head around T.J.'s at the other end of the table. A carrot stick was dangling out of his mouth. "He wouldn't lie about something this important."

"He has before," Jeff pointed out, nearly smacking Kurt in the face with his wildly flapping arms as his chair almost lost its footing. He righted himself with an ungainly thrusting movement before continuing. "Remember that one time last semester, when he said he'd been sick in bed all day and had to miss Warblers rehearsal -?"

"That was different," Wes interjected immediately, his eyes sliding briefly over in Kurt's direction.

Jeff gave a wobbly shrug. "Just saying."

Across the table from Jeff, Zach was frowning. "But didn't Thad say he saw -?"

"Thad once tried to convince me he had met his own doppelganger while shopping for belts at Dillards." Wes was looking flatly at Zach. "Not the most reliable of sources."

"Still, he seemed more lucid that usual when he said -"

The conversation continued on in this fashion around Kurt for a solid ten minutes, and not for the first time since arriving to school this morning, he was feeling decidedly out of the loop. This was getting ridiculous. It was only lunch, and yet Kurt had already found himself taking part in two of the most confusing conversations he had ever held. Which was saying a lot, considering he had spent countless hours with Brittany, ruminating over the nefarious kitty hijinks of one Lord Tubbington.

"Was _who _telling the truth about _what_?" Kurt eventually demanded above the other boys' voices, his patience wearing thin as the other boys continued to ignore him. He took a dark sort of comfort in the way all the Warblers at the table jumped visibly at his yell and turned to him in surprise. And, yeah, Kurt knew he sounded peevish and probably looked more than a little unbalanced by this point, but he honestly felt himself justified: it was noisy in the dining hall, he hadn't caught a glimpse of Blaine in nearly three hours, and not _one _person had complimented his scarf yet. Clearly, Kurt was having an off day.

There was silence along the table, and then David sighed in a way that had zero positive effect on Kurt's mood. "The text!" he said simply, as if that was a satisfactory explanation. When Kurt merely stared uncomprehendingly, David sighed again, pulled out his phone and began waving it impertinently under Kurt's nose. The patronizing look the older boy wore as he did this had Kurt visualizing himself snatching the stupid thing out of David's hand and chucking it across the hall. "Blaine's text! Is what he said in it actually true?"

"You know, I really don't appreciate your tone, David, and furthermore –" Kurt's brain caught up with what David had said, and he froze, finger raised and pointed at the older boy, his words stalled in his throat. A text? Had Kurt's ears heard correctly? A text from _Blaine_? Was the older boy honestly trying to imply that an entire room full of boys had reduced themselves to blithering, witless ingrates ... because of a text?

A thought occurred to Kurt, and he felt the corners of his mouth pull down in a slight frown. He felt stung and more than a little annoyed that no one - particularly the gossip-mongerer, Blaine - had thought to let him in on the secret.

Unless this was all just some elaborate prank?

"You still look confused," Wes noted cheerfully.

Saying Kurt was still confused could easily have been nominated the Most Redundant Statement of the Day. "So, let me see if I have this right," he began slowly, head tilting to the side. "Are you saying that Blaine sent a text to _all _of you -" Kurt gestured to the room as a whole "- about whatever it is this splendiferous news may be, which has inadvertently led to the loss of brain functions in almost every boy in this lunch room?"

"Of course not," David said with a roll of his eyes, as though this was obvious. "Blaine texted _me _first -"

"- who texted me," smirked Wes. "So I showed Louis -"

"- because we're in the same English class," nodded Louis. "And then I relayed the news to Jeff -"

"- who sent it to Thad," T.J. supplied, as Jeff was too busy trying not to crack his head open on the table to pay any attention to the ongoing conversation. "Who spent the next hour texting it to everyone on his contacts list -"

"And thus, this," finished Wes, sweeping his hands extravagantly, indicating the entirety of the dining hall, where the boys of lunch hour A were still acting as though their sensibilities and common sense had momentarily jumped ship.

Kurt listened to this explanation in silence, staring around at the bright, enthusiastic faces of his friends. It was amazing that, even in reference to gossip, the Warbler boys were uniformly organized. The vigor and efficiency with which they operated was often times a remarkable, and terrifying, thing to behold, though Kurt could not quite shake the feeling that he was still missing a key piece of the conversation.

"So." Zach leaned forward in his chair eagerly, ducking his head as he asked in a conspiratorial whisper, "D'you think the uniform will be the same?"

"Don't be ridiculous," scoffed David. "Of course won't be the same, that goes without saying."

"I don't know," interrupted Wes, puckering his lips thoughtfully. "If what Blaine says is true - which I refuse to believe until the proper evidence has been presented, by the way - then obviously it has something to do with equality of rights. There's no way they'll infringe on that by switching the uniforms ..."

"No, they wouldn't do that to us," said Louis, shaking his head slowly, looking horrified at the very thought. "We've all been waiting for this day for years. No way they'd cheapen it. That'd be a low blow."

"Well, it's not exactly as though there's a protocol set for this sort of thing," Wes retorted, his voice slipping further and further into Head Warbler mode with each passing second. "If what's been said is true, then clearly some serious politics came into play here, which is why I'm absolutely convinced -"

"Save it for gavel-time, Wes ..."

"Keep my gavel out of this!"

"Is this the part where Rod Serling strolls through the doors and begins narrating about the social significance and subtle ironies of teenage drug use?" Kurt asked rhetorically, not even sure his question could be heard over his friends' rapidly escalating argument. He was therefore understandably surprised when an amused voice answered him.

"As commendable as that reference was, I think you may be overestimating these guys' familiarity with late 1950's television shows, Kurt."

Blaine had finally arrived. Kurt took a moment to squeal internally (because, dear Dolce and Gabbana, Blaine knew _The Twilight Zone _– could he be any more perfect?) before spinning around in his seat to face his boyfriend. Blaine was standing very close to the back of Kurt's chair, looking as delicious as he had that morning, if a little more alert. His warm eyes sparkling as he gazed down at Kurt in such a way that had all previous thoughts zooming abruptly from the taller boy's head. Who needed thoughts, anyway? What a waste of time and energy those were, when Kurt could just sit and stare and _appreciate _instead.

It was clear that Kurt had developed a bit of a problem when it came to Blaine. When the other boy was out of sight, Kurt was more or less able to function like a regular human being – breathing and talking at the same time, for instance, was hardly ever an issue. The second his dashing boyfriend came into view, however, insensible Kurt appeared, and with a _vengeance_. Just like now, actually. Having not been given the preparation time necessary to have _those _eyes and _that _smile directed so intensely on him, there was a slight delay between Kurt's brain and his mouth as his nerves momentarily went haywire. So, instead of issuing the much-practiced though no less sultry, "Hey," he had originally planned on knocking Blaine sideways with, Kurt's greeting came out more as a breathy and unintelligible, "Nnnghhh." He mentally smacked himself the moment the sound left him, and felt his ears begin to burn as he glared halfheartedly around the table, where the chuckles and snickers of the Warblers were being hastily stifled behind their hands.

However, Blaine seemed to enjoy Kurt's distinct lack of coherency, if the widening of his smile was any indication. "Nnnghhh to you, too," he replied teasingly, stooping down to kiss Kurt lightly on the cheek. Kurt felt his face flush at the open display of affection, though he smiled widely all the same. Blaine laughed rather bashfully as their friends began _ooohing_ obnoxiously (all the while in perfect harmony, incidentally), then reached down and feathered his fingers against Kurt's hairline; an action Kurt would have halted immediately, had his brain not just turned to mush. As it was, Blaine's touch felt freaking _incredible_, so he decided to let it slide. Just this once. "Have I told you you're adorable yet today?"

"The tally is up to three so far." Kurt's eyes fluttered, and he was not even bothered by the mimed retching noises sounding from all sides as he smiled sappily up at his boyfriend. He was just happy to be speaking English again.

"Only three?" Blaine gasped playfully. "I'm a horrible boyfriend."

"Ugh, _spare _us," Wes groaned behind them; Kurt leveled a piercing glare over his shoulder.

Nick was nodding along in agreement with Wes. "Yeah. We're happy for you and all, and are totally supportive of you getting your gay on with each other, but seriously, dudes - my cavities are starting to cry."

Blaine immediately set off in a calm, yet no less spirited monologue about the importance of showing affection to one's significant other, and it was around this moment when two things happened in quick succession. One: Kurt, having glanced idly about the dining hall as Blaine began to speak, noticed with a vague interest that the noise of the surrounding boys had all but died away, their eyes all turned to stare intently in Kurt and his friends' direction, leaving the conversation at the Warbler table the focal point in the room. And two: a girl appeared at Blaine's elbow.

Which, Kurt realized in hindsight, more than likely accounted for the sudden silence and intense gazes of their fellow peers.

The girl was - well, _female _was the first word to pop into Kurt's head, as obvious as that was. She had a pretty face, though nothing remarkable. Her eyes were wide and brown, her cheeks rosy. Her dark hair was short and choppy, her stature was average and curvy, and she was wearing an ill-fitting Dalton blazer that had obviously been tailored originally for a male, paired along with a blue-and-gray plaid skirt.

"Dear Lord," David breathed out, first to break the awestruck silence, his face the picture of poorly-contained bliss, "tell me I'm not hallucinating."

Blaine was clearly struggling to hold in a smile as he gestured to the girl standing next to him. "Guys," he directed at the table, shooting a quick wink in Kurt's direction, "I'd like you all to meet Casey Dewitt, our newest transfer student."

Seemingly completely at her ease, as though being announced as the only female pupil in an all-boys' school was a normal occurrence for her, Casey gave them all a little finger wave and a smile. "Nice to meet you all." Her voice was bright and cheerful, her enunciation clear and unassuming, and with just the slightest hint of a southern drawl.

There was a collective inhale from all the heterosexual males in the room. For one fleeting second, everything seemed to pause, as movement within the lunchroom was momentarily suspended. All was completely still: no rustling of books and papers, no clinking of knives and forks, no shifting of nervous bodies in their chairs ... hardly a breath could be heard in the deafening silence. And then ...

_CRASH_! Jeff had fallen over in his chair, tumbling to the hardwood floor with a loud bang that thundered across the vaulted ceiling and against the wainscoted walls. And that was all it took for the dam to break. There was a surge of sound as boys all across the hall began whooping and hollering with delight. Catcalls could be heard floating from all sides of the room, rapid chattering and loud guffaws rose up from the boys who were grouped around the tables; chest-thumping and fist-bumping had resumed with a new vigor, and every stick of gum located within the vicinity of the dining hall was now being chewed obscenely fast.

Every boy standing in the lunch hall was currently experiencing some sort of violent reaction to the abrupt presence of a female in their midst, and the Warbler boys were no exception. David was gargling nonsensically, drool dribbling down his chin. Wes was staring obviously, wide-eyed with disbelief. Jeff still lay immobile upon the floor, gazing up at the girl with his mouth hanging open. Nick's eyes were twitching, Louis' hair was quivering, T.J. was pinching himself, Zach was murmuring his thanks to every deity he could think of (and some he made up on the spot). Blaine had a hand pressed to his mouth as he laughed quietly at his friends' idiotic expressions ...

... And Kurt?

"That color does nothing for your skin tone."

Well, Kurt was Kurt.

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><p><strong>AN2: <strong>Yeah, I went there. Please don't hate me, though feel free to review and call me out on my horrible attempt at thickening the plot. I'm just trying to write a bit of humor, and honestly I find nothing funnier than the thought of a girl entering the prestigious halls of Dalton Academy and sending the stuffy boys that go there into a hormone-crazed frenzy. And I know I haven't explained why she is there or how she managed to get into an all-boys' school, but it's coming. I promise I'm going to explain myself and try my hardest to make it all as plausible as possible.

Oh, and before anyone asks: _no_, neither Kurt or Blaine are going to find themselves fighting for each other's affections over Casey. Casey is a girl, and our darling boys are – as Blaine so wonderfully put it – %100 gay. I won't do a disservice to the characters the writers of Glee created by making either Kurt or Blaine question that … um … again. This story is going to stay Kurt-centric, and will be full to the brim of Klaine-y goodness.

Please take a moment to review. I was very hesitant about this chapter - freaking hate it, to be honest - and could really use some feedback about it.


	5. Chapter Five: Invading and Evading

**AN: **Aaannd here's chapter five! Thanks again for all who have read, reviewed, alerted and fav'd this fic. I have to say I enjoyed writing this chapter _much _more than I did the last one. I dunno what it is about chapter four, but I can't read it without cringing. Meh. I think this one makes up for it, though.

I keep promising to get these chapters out soon-ish, but I honestly think I am physically incapable of churning out more than one a week. I'll keep trying, though, promise!

**Disclaimer: **Glee's not mine. Character's aren't mine. Nothing is mine.

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><p><strong>Chapter Five: Invading and Evading<strong>

It was four days since the now infamous dining hall incident, and the boys of Dalton Academy were still reeling over the arrival of their newest, most controversial transfer student to date. The whispers and speculation had been nonstop since Blaine Anderson had introduced Casey Dewitt to lunch hour A, and the new tenant of single room 214 had quickly become the talk of the school. Everywhere one walked, a hushed conversation about Miss Dewitt could be heard. The boys pelted each other with questions about their new schoolmate ("What's she doing here?" "Why'd her parents send her to an all-boys' school?" "Where does she _pee_?") during every free moment they could spare; classrooms, hallways, common areas, computer labs – no square footage had been left unaffected by the historical happenings of the school. Even the school's newspaper, the Dalton Dispatch, had run an emergency edition, devoting a five-page spread to the enigmatic girl, and while they had managed to answer many of the student body's more burning questions (hometown: Fayetteville, Georgia; favorite food: strawberries; relationship status: single) there was still much to be learned about the lone teenaged female in their midst.

One of the first things the boys had managed to glean during their various not-quite-so-covert-as-they-hoped eavesdropping sessions – besides the fact that holy _hell_, she's a _she _and it's _obvious – _was that Casey Dewitt came from money. True, there was nothing outwardly apparent about the Southern girl that screamed "wealthy!" (if you excluded the shiny new Mercedes SL-class that had been spotted in the boarders' parking lot the morning after Casey arrived), but the hints, while subtle, were still there. When Casey spoke, it was with a twinge of refinement one would expect from a girl who had spent the majority of her summers attending finishing school, doing things like balancing books on top of her head while she walked, and learning the finer delicacies of snaring a husband with a glance and a well-timed simper. She walked with the air of one who had spent many an evening twirling prettily at one of her parents' high-society dinner balls; she ate with her pinky extended delicately; when she responded to teachers, she called them "sir" and "ma'am"; and always, always, _always _did she end her sentences with a light, airy giggle and a coquettish little smile. It was plain to see, just by the way she held herself, that Casey Dewitt was from one of _those _Southern families, where the wealth was plentiful and the lifestyle luxurious. Clearly the girl had lived the life of the exceedingly pampered, and by all appearances, had enjoyed every minute of it.

But surprisingly, the fact that Casey came from a rich family was not the most prominent feature to the curious girl's persona, as there were more than a few boys in attendance at Dalton who had never known what the term _middle-class _truly entailed. No, the thing Casey's fellow peers noted most strongly about her rather obtrusive presence (besides the aforementioned "_she's a girl_!" revelations) was that Casey was … very friendly. She was all coy smiles and contagious laughter those first few hours she spent at the center of attention; she spoke rapidly and amiably to all who approached her, and even to a fair few who didn't. More than one remarkably shy Dalton boy had been sent to the nurse's office following an animated encounter with their new resident female – though it had been assured by the nurse that eventually the shock would wear off, and the boys would be able to leave the sound-resistant rooms they had been temporarily removed to, once their hysteria had lessened.

It had taken Casey less than twenty-four hours to earn herself the title of most talked-about student in the school, and it was easy to see why. Gentle touches to passing boys' arms, a lighthearted laugh here or there, and a dozen dropped pencils was all Casey had needed to have almost every boy eating out of the palm of her hand within her first week of school. When she walked into a room, eyes followed; when she sashayed over to a desk, the pleats of her skirt flapping entrancingly above her knees, mouths dropped open; and when she pulled out her makeup case and began applying her lip gloss in the middle of British Lit., puckering her mouth and fluttering her eyes a bit unnecessarily as she did so, minds stopped functioning altogether. Everywhere Casey went, a group of gibbering boys was sure to follow, eyebrows waggling interactively with their friends as they flexed their arms and bumped out their chests. She had spent a grand total of fifteen minutes carrying her own books – during the morning hours of her first day, before she had been properly introduced – before suddenly finding herself surrounded by a swarm of eager suitors, all clamoring to help lighten her load. Every door was held open for her, every chair pulled out. Boys bickered over who would show her to her next class, shot death glares at those lucky enough to snag a lunchtime seat beside her; a brawl had nearly commenced during fourth hour Multimedia, between two boys who had both offered Casey a pen after she left hers in another purse.

Everyone had quickly come to adore Miss Dewitt, and her charms were not limited to just the student body. One full rotation of her lectures was all that had been required for Casey to ensnare the hearts and draw all the attention of Dalton Academy's faculty. They each declared her a "refreshing treat" to the daily, most decidedly _masculine_ routine at Dalton, and that she had a "dear, sweet personality" with manners enough to match. Her flair for foreign language was praised exuberantly by Madame Gerbere, her knowledge of the nervous system deemed "exceptional" by the normally monotonous Mr. Robards; even Mrs. Dunmore, the senile history teacher with the cat obsession, had waxed passionately about Casey's superb syntax (this particular conversation had occurred during one of Mrs. Dunmore's more _off_ days, when she had mistakenly believed herself to be the Language Arts teacher).

By the end of Casey Dewitt's first week at Dalton Academy, it seemed as though every person housed within the school's magnificent walls had fallen hard for the charming Georgia peach, with her unique Southern drawl and vibrant personality.

Well, every person except for one.

Kurt Hummel, who prided himself on his ability to see to the core of a person's true nature (his misguided crushes on two as-straight-as-they-get males notwithstanding) had not been fooled by the Dewitt girl's demure smiles and genteel tone. In fact, he had reacted quite the opposite to the rest of his peers. Instead of showering the new girl with affection and praise for doing what half the world's population had managed just fine on their own (that is, grow boobs), Kurt had been instantly wary of Casey's presence at Dalton, because really now – a girl being allowed admittance into a school that had catered exclusively to the education of males for nearly two centuries? When there was a perfectly adequate all-girls' private school, by the name of Crawford Country Day, located just five miles down the expressway? How _cliche_. And it wasn't just the girl's suspicious choice in educational institutions that had Kurt skeptic, either. Frankly, he could not even see the appeal of the new student: to him, Casey Dewitt was nothing more than a fashion faux pas (_black _knee-high socks with a blue-and-gray uniform? Really? How trite.), cleverly concealed behind a vapid face with a pallid complexion and weak bone structure no amount of rouge could hide. Kurt saw nothing impressive in Casey Dewitt's too-trendy hairstyle, her _last season _Fendi hobo bag (not to mention the _color _– did she really think she was a spring? Puh-_lease_), and that incessant _giggling _the girl was constantly emitting. In fact, Kurt found it mostly disgusting the way the girl flaunted her assets, how she _threw _herself into the arms of every boy she met, batting her eyes and smiling insipidly like some helpless nineteen-thirties damsel. Really, Kurt almost felt embarrassed for her. Or would have, anyway, if it had not been for the fact Kurt found her mere presence to be barely tolerable.

Unfortunately, as Kurt was soon to understand, tolerating Miss Dewitt's presence was quickly becoming a necessary evil.

Casey had been an instant hit with the Warblers. After the boys had recovered from the shock of having their every earthly desire presented to them wearing a short plaid skirt, they had welcomed the new girl to their table with open arms and wandering eyes, their smiles wide and borderline-pervy as they each tried every tactic in courtship they had managed to retain during that one Cary Grant film fest Blaine had forced them all to sit through last spring. Kurt had found it alarming the lows his fellow Warblers had been willing to stoop to snag the attention of the lone female in the room; while it had been funny when Nick tried to convince Casey he was a world-class hurdler – especially hilarious, coming from the boy who tripped on shoelaces while he was wearing sandals – Kurt couldn't figure for the life of him why Jeff seemed to think grunting after every sentence was the fastest way to winning the girl's heart. The incomprehensible squeaking bass-singer Louis had issuing from between his lips whenever Casey turned toward him had been very amusing indeed, though Kurt had again felt himself stumped as to the reasons why T.J. thought crossing his eyes was an attractive look for him. All the Warbler boys had seemed determined to continue on in the fashion like a bunch of lovestruck imbeciles, and Kurt had gladly left them to it, figuring he might be able to appreciate the entertainment-factor of it all. He had decided to step in, however, when he overheard Wes innocently asking Casey whether or not she would like to hold his gavel. Whichever gavel Wes may have been talking about (and there's a mental image Kurt could have happily lived without), Kurt was sure the outcome would be anything but positive.

Because Kurt had met Wes' girlfriend, and the woman was like a hybrid version of Rachel Berry and Santana Lopez, in the most _dangerous _possible combination. Kurt may not have been overly fond of their new female companion, but he didn't necessarily want the girl injured, either.

The Warblers had spent the entirety of their lunch hour making complete fools of themselves as they lavished attention upon Casey, who had clearly enjoyed herself, if by the way she had constantly flicked her hair off her forehead and giggled obnoxiously was anything to go by. By the time the bell rung indicating the start of their afternoon classes, Kurt's eye had begun twitching, and the corners of his mouth felt as though they were stuck permanently in the bad-tempered scowl he had worn for the majority of his interactions was Casey. And when Warbler Zach (who shared Kurt's English class) had gone on and on and _on _about Casey Dewitt's _adorable_, _kittish _little laugh, Kurt had fought with all he had not to stab himself in the ears with his pen.

Because seriously: the giggle was _annoying_.

"Oh, sweet Madonna, you should _hear _it," Kurt told Mercedes with an exaggerated shudder, on the Friday after Casey's arrival at Dalton. They were at the mall, perusing the shops and stalls with a ritualistic efficiency that could only be bred by frequent shopping excursions and an inherent knowledge of all the best half-off deals. Kurt was in the middle of animatedly describing Casey Dewitt's atrocious laugh to his best friend, and had yet to notice Mercedes did not seem nearly as interested in the subject as he was. "It's breathy yet harsh at the same time, if that makes sense. Surprisingly low-pitched, though. Sort of nasally, but not – and has a quality to it that is just so … so …"

"Annoying?" Mercedes supplied tersely as she flipped violently through a rack of jeans.

Kurt nodded emphatically. "_Yes_, exactly." He failed to see the girl raise her eyes to the ceiling.

"You know, Kurt," Tina's head poked out from behind a display of – well, Kurt wasn't quite sure what it was a display of, but it included a lot of chain-mail and garments that looked more dangerous than fashionable. "We've been here for over an hour, and all you've talked about since we arrived is this Casey person. For a girl you say you 'barely deign to notice at all', you sure seem fixated on her."

Kurt was immediately scoffing. "I am not _fixated_," he told the Asian girl haughtily; and if the two girls mistook his disdain for defensiveness then, well, they were _wrong_, because clearly that was not the case. At all. "I'm just surprised I've managed to find a sound that is more grating on my nerves than Rachel's voice."

"I would take offense to that, if I didn't already know your sarcasm is merely a front for your deep-seated resentment of my talent." Rachel flounced into view from behind a buy-one-get-one belt display, her arms full of jumpers so hideous, Kurt's eyes actually started watering.

Mercedes had caught sight of them as well. She choked. "Oh, merciful Lord, _tell _me you're not actually considering buying those!"

"What?" Rachel replied, affronted. She glanced down at the overabundance of pastel flowing from her arms. "They're perfect! Look at these colors!" She plucked at one sweater in particular, which was dyed an outrageously garish shade of orange. "I own seven pairs of tights that match this one sweater alone!"

"And if that's not disturbing enough …" Tina mumbled from the corner of her mouth; she began edging slowly away from the other girl, as though afraid Rachel's bad taste in clothing was contagious.

"Rachel," Kurt began gently, wearily eying the truly awful garments in her hands, "you'll never win Finn back if you keep insisting on wearing those monstrosities out in public." He tilted his head to the side thoughtfully, taking into consideration what it would mean to his home life – more importantly, the continuation of Berry-free Friday night dinners – if Finn was never to date Rachel again. "I take it back. They're you, and I'll never forgive you if you don't buy them immediately."

Mercedes and Tina snickered into each other's shoulders as Rachel glanced distrustfully between Kurt and the sweaters.

"So, this Dewitt girl," Mercedes began, pulling out a pair of jeans and sizing them up critically, "you said she's got all those fine Warbler boys drooling after her, but not once have you mentioned what your arm candy has to say about it all." She held the pants up to her legs, considering. "These look good?"

"Your butt would kill in those," Kurt told her immediately, before letting out a soft sigh. "Blaine thinks she's great," he told the three girls, a hint of bitterness belying his attempt at nonchalance. "He's still mostly confused about why she's even at Dalton in the first place, of course, but when I asked him what he thought about her, he responded, and I quote: 'her color choices are questionable, _but she seems nice_'."

The three girls cringed with Kurt. Tina made a sympathetic noise. "So he fell for her irresistible Southern charm, too?"

Kurt waved his hand around loftily. "I knew he was a goner when her phone rang and _E.T. _started playing."

"Perry is off-key during the majority of that song," Rachel informed them, nodding her head vehemently when they all stared at her. "I can tell because, as you know, I have perfect pitch, so –"

The other three looked at one another silently, before scooting closer, effectively blocking out Rachel, who continued speaking to herself anyway, undeterred.

"Does Blaine, like, hang around her?" Tina asked, sounding almost hesitant.

"Not really, no." Kurt frowned disapprovingly when he spotted the pair of gloves Tina was contemplating. "That style is so last fall."

Tina promptly dropped them.

"But how do you _know _he isn't hanging out with her once you leave?" Rachel shouldered her way between Kurt and Mercedes, the opportunity to wheedle Kurt about his relationship apparently more than enough reason to cut her Katy Perry diatribe short. "You said she boards at the school too, right?"

Kurt stared narrowly down his nose at the petite girl. "Why are you here, again?"

"She threatened to tell Lauren we were the ones who cleared out her stash of Milk Duds from Brad's piano if we didn't let her come with," Tina informed Kurt, who did not know whether or not he should be worried that he had not found any part of that explanation odd.

"Blaine's kissed a girl before, you know," Rachel continued ruthlessly, ignoring the others' remarks, "for more than ten seconds. I counted." Her eyes were wide and feverish in typical Rachel-on-the-warpath form, and her unbearable arrogance began to seep into her words when she next said, "And I think it's safe to say I rocked his world, sober or no."

As Rachel continued to describe in great detail the passionate (read: slobbery-drunk) kiss she and Blaine had most unfortunately shared, Kurt couldn't help but wonder whether the _no hitting girls _rule still applied to him. Surely this was a special case, considering how ridiculously irritating Rachel was? He put a hand up to his mouth, contemplating the thought. It would almost be like doing humanity a favor, he justified. The future generation would undoubtedly thank him for smacking a little modesty into her.

Before he had managed to come to a decisive conclusion one way or the other, Mercedes stepped in.

"Weren't you also the one who helped scare any future girl-loving out of him?" she asked the still-prattling Rachel, smiling sweetly. "'One hundred percent gay', isn't that what Blaine said after you kissed him that second time?"

"Boys are notoriously fickle."

"And you're notoriously psychotic." Rachel puffed up angrily at this, but one of Mercedes' patented _sister, please _looks was all it took to have the other girl backing down feebly. Mercedes eyed her, smirking in triumph. "Mm-hm." With a dismissive flick of her hair, she turned back to Kurt, who whistled in appreciation – her look had been impressively fierce. It was a relief to know that the girl attached to that particular facial expression was almost always exclusively on Kurt's side.

"You're amazing, and those jeans are fabulous," he praised his best friend wholeheartedly.

Mercedes patted his cheek affectionately. "Thanks, boo." She folded the jeans over her arm before returning to her perusal of the racks. "Besides, everybody knows you and Blaine are for real."

"Yeah," piped up Tina, who was half-in half-out of what appeared to be a fishnet jacket with _actual _fish hooks sewn into the cuffs. "He, like, totally braved a stare-off with your dad for you." Tina sounded deeply impressed, even as she struggled to unhook a fishing lure from her black-lace arm sleeves. "That's legit."

"That's _love_," Mercedes corrected, and she and Tina burst into keening giggles when Kurt instantly flushed.

Kurt cleared his throat and smoothed out the front of his shirt unnecessarily, the corners of his mouth twitching as he fought to contain one of the lovestruck smiles he was prone to wearing whenever Blaine was brought up in conversation. Once he was sure he could speak without gushing embarrassingly, Kurt suggested they hit the food court for some post-shopping smoothies. The girls all agreed – even Rachel, who was still looking sour about the psycho comment – and ten minutes later found the four of them strolling aimlessly through the bustling crowd of afternoon shoppers, bags swinging from their wrists, each of them slurping loudly on their drinks as the gossiped happily about the forever drama-filled group that was New Directions.

"Wait, wait, wait," Kurt held up a hand to Tina, trying to stifle a laugh and nearly snorting up half of his mango-banana-pineapple smoothie in the process. "_That's _why Finn came home last week with a black eye, and completely covered in maple syrup?"

Tina nodded seriously. "Lauren Zisces is a force to be reckoned with if you accidentally sit on her last cupcake."

"That horrible girl overreacted," Rachel proclaimed heatedly, immediately jumping to her beloved's defense. "It was an accident, and sprinkling hot sauce down the front of Finn's pants was just cruel."

Kurt gasped. "Oh, my … _please _tell me you have pictures!"

Mercedes and Tina both whipped out their phones, smirking wickedly. Rachel "hmphed" before sucking furiously on her drink.

"So d'you have any plans with lover boy this weekend?" Mercedes asked, as Kurt scrolled eagerly through the photos on her phone, chortling with delight at the increasingly ridiculous faces his step-brother was making in each of them.

"Finn's got another basketball game tonight, so Blaine's coming over to watch movies." He glanced up at the girls at this, his lips pulling up into a brazen smirk as he added suggestively, "We'll have the house to ourselves again."

Mercedes and Tina, true to form, began squealing and clutching at Kurt's arms excitedly. This was exactly the reaction Kurt had been hoping for, as he himself had been feeling the increasing need to flail wildly at the prospect of his approaching date night with Blaine. However, seeing as he was currently in the middle of a rather crowded mall, full of people who generally looked down upon teenaged boys jumping up and down giddily, he settled for clapping his hands together and quietly shrieking.

Rachel, funnily enough, did not seem near as eager about Kurt's plans as Mercedes and Tina were.

"Wait, so Blaine is coming over to your house?" She seemed genuinely confused by this. Her dark eyebrows were pinched together as she frowned intensely up at Kurt. "Again?"

Kurt took a dainty sip from his smoothie before returning casually, "I wasn't aware there was a limit to household visits."

"Seriously, what are you talking about, Rachel?" Tina and Mercedes were both staring at the girl sandwiched between them, straws in mouths and brows raised inquiringly.

Rachel quailed slightly under the other three's gazes. "Well," she stuttered, a blush forming high on her cheekbones as she fiddled with the straw in her smoothie cup, "I guess I just assumed that since Kurt introduced Blaine to his parents last weekend, it only made sense that Blaine would return the favor this weekend."

The hesitancy in Rachel's voice, and the way her sentence trailed away into an uncharacteristically awkward silence had Kurt chuckling lightly. It was times like these where Kurt remembered why he had yet to ban Rachel Berry and her shockingly horrendous cardigans from his presence. He took another indulgent sip of his smoothie, still chortling softly as he reminded himself he would need to leave soon if he wanted enough time to pick out the perfect outfit for his and Blaine's date. A quick glance to his right, however, had him freezing with his smoothie straw still in his mouth, the images of coordinating scarves and belts momentarily pushed to the back of his mind as he took in the fact that Mercedes and Tina had swiveled their expectant gazes from Rachel, and over onto him instead.

He glanced from one to the other and back again. "What?" he asked, confused. Did he have mango-banana-pineapple on his face? He wiped impulsively at his cheeks and chin with his fingers.

"Kurt," Mercedes said slowly, after sharing a look with Tina, "Rachel sort of has a point."

… And with that vote of confidence, Insufferable Rachel was back. "Well, of _course _I have a point," the short brunette declared imperiously, smiling smugly at them as her overbearing confidence returned full-force. "I _always _have a point." She took a victorious slurp from her smoothie, her conceited brown eyes trained on Kurt once more. "_Well_?"

"I –" For a moment, Kurt floundered. The conversation had turned on him so abruptly, his brain was having difficulty keeping up. All he knew was he had three very strong-willed females staring expectantly up at him – two of whom he knew were more than capable of physical violence – waiting for him to speak about a topic to which he was unsure the subject. He was beginning to feel slightly uncomfortable. "I don't – it's … what?"

"Well, why _wouldn't _Blaine want to introduce you to his parents this weekend, hmm?" Rachel cocked her head sharply to the side, adding a vaguely unhinged feel to her appearance. "They live less than an hour away from Westerville, don't they?"

"Yeah, but I still don't see what this has to do with –"

Rachel cut across him before he could finish. "Did Blaine tell you why he hasn't brought you home to meet his parents yet?"

"I … well, _no_, but –"

"Has he mentioned any desire in introducing you?"

"… we've only been dating for two weeks – !"

"What's that got to do with anything? You introduced him to _your _parents, didn't you? Why doesn't he want to introduce you to his?"

"It's – it's not a question of _want_!" Kurt spluttered, staring helplessly at Mercedes and Tina over Rachel's head, who was still pestering him with questions. The other two shrugged unhelpfully; even they knew better than to interfere with a Rachel-confrontation once she had worked herself up to speaking eighty-five words a second.

This had to be the first time Kurt had ever felt out-numbered and distinctly nervous in a group of girls. He was having trouble getting used to the reversal of roles that had apparently occurred within their group dynamic. Usually _he _was the one doing all of the boyfriend-interrogating, not the other way around, and having it switched on him had thrown Kurt off-balance, turning him into easy prey and making it difficult for him to fend off Rachel's attack.

And as Kurt and the three girls began making their way toward the exit, it only worsened.

"Isn't it odd, how he's never mentioned them to you before …?

"I don't recall seeing them attending Sectionals or Regionals. Did _you _see them there – ?

"So they've _never _visited Dalton while you've been attending? And that doesn't _worry _you …?

"All I know is, that if you were _my _first boyfriend, _I'd _have brought you home within the first two _hours _–"

While he was indignant by what Rachel was clearly implying with her rapid-fire bombardment of questions (all of which Kurt had been unable to respond to, seeing as the girl had yet to take a breath), Kurt couldn't stop the little sliver of unease that slipped into his stomach when Rachel declared fifteen minutes later – as they were parting ways in the parking lot – how she found the whole situation with Blaine extremely suspicious, and that she would not be a bit surprised if he ended up turning out to be another Jesse St. James. (She pretended not to hear when Tina pointed out that not only did Kurt join Blaine's Glee club and not the other way around, but the end of the Warblers' competition season meant Blaine spying on Kurt had become a tad redundant.)

Kurt was new to the whole relationship thing, and the fact he was constantly feeling out of his depth when it came to his interactions with Blaine had Rachel's suspicions prickling in his ears uncomfortably. _Was _it weird that Blaine hadn't asked Kurt to meet his parents yet? Blaine barely ever mentioned them in the first place, and Kurt had just assumed Mr. and Mrs. Anderson were merely the type of career-oriented parents who loved their son from a distance. Blaine had never given him any reason to think otherwise, but perhaps Kurt had been wrong? Was there more to it? And – Kurt's head hurt just thinking the words – was Rachel correct in her assumptions? Was Blaine putting off introducing Kurt to his parents because … he was ashamed?

"Have fun tonight, Kurt," Tina said, and Kurt pulled himself out of his thoughts as the shorter girl gave him a quick hug before jumping into the passenger seat of Mercedes' car.

"But not _too much _fun," Mercedes added, wagging her finger mock-sternly, before breaking into an affectionate smile and hugging Kurt as well. "Don't listen too closely to the crazy lady, Kurt," she muttered into his ear, squeezing his shoulders tightly. "Rachel's just jealous you have with Blaine what she wants with Finn." She drew away from him, and her smile turned devious. "I expect a full play-by-play the moment that fine boy toy of yours leaves, by the way. I want all the deets on those sweet boy kisses."

Kurt felt his face heat up before he could stop himself, but he promised to fill Mercedes in on all the "deets" once the date was over. He helped his best friend into her car, closed the door for her, then stepped back as the engine turned over. He couldn't help but laugh when Tina hung herself out of the passenger side window so as to wave a proper goodbye to him.

"It was so good to see you, Kurt!" she called, as Mercedes pulled out of the parking spot. "Give Blaine our love!"

Kurt returned Tina's wave. The smile he wore, he was relieved to note, was almost completely genuine as he watched until Mercedes' car disappeared out of the parking lot and into traffic. The words Rachel had said were still drifting around uneasily between Kurt's ears, but he took heart in what Mercedes and Tina had said as well. Like the two girls had told him earlier, he and Blaine were for real, totally legit, and Kurt knew nothing was about to change that any time soon.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, slid the screen unlocked, and felt the rest of his unease float away almost instantly.

_On my way! Can't wait to see you! x o_

It took several minutes for Kurt, who was grinning stupidly down at his phone, to recall how he was standing in the middle of a busy parking lot, that people passing by him were probably beginning to wonder at his mental health, and – oh hell, he officially had less than two hours to assemble his outfit and decide how to wear his hair before Blaine arrived.

Kurt made it home in record time. He was careful not to speed too much, though if he accidentally failed to yield through a couple pesky red lights, and maybe a stop sign or seven along the way, well … desperate times called for desperate measures.

* * *

><p>"Okay, okay. My turn. Um … favorite Vincente Minelli film?"<p>

It was half past eight, and Kurt and Blaine were in the Hummel-Hudson's living room, their knees touching as they each sat cross-legged on the squishy sofa, facing each other. The movie they had started earlier, _Footloose_, had become little more than background noise as they talked, taking it in turns to ask each other any question they could think of, and swapping between sharing soft smiles whenever they agreed on something, and bickering flirtingly when they didn't.

"_Meet Me in St. Louis_, obviously." Kurt's response to Blaine's question was instant, having required no previous thought. He bit into a pretzel stick. "Yours?"

"Hmm." Blaine reached over and snagged a handful of popcorn from the bowl sitting in Kurt's lap. He popped a few of the buttery kernels into his mouth, chewed thoughtfully, before answering decisively, "_Brigadoon_."

"_What_?" The pretzel stick dropped into the popcorn bowl as Kurt's mouth hung open in disbelief. Had he misheard? He must have, because there was no _possible _way Blaine was being serious …

"You're not serious," Kurt voiced his skepticism, then shook his head faintly when Blaine merely nodded in affirmation. "A plethora of iconic American musicals with Minelli's name stamped on the director's chair, and you go with _Brigadoon_? _Really_?" He stared at the other in appalled silence, a myriad of scathing comments revolving around the over-done dance numbers and poorly-designed studio sets dangling from the tip of his tongue. He could not decide on which one to start with, so instead Kurt settled by weakly asking, "_Why_?"

Blaine's smile was teasing as he replied simply, "The kilts," and the impish look in his boyfriend's eyes as he said this had Kurt filing that sudden insight into Blaine's kinky side for a later, much more detailed examination.

He was still disappointed in Blaine's choice, and Kurt told him so definitively. Blaine remained unrepentant, though he readily admitted the importance of _Meet Me in St. Louis_, the film in which Judy Garland and Vincente Minelli had first corroborated. When he started reminiscing over the actor who had played John Truett (a total dreamboat, apparently), however, Kurt had the distinct impression he was being made fun of, and so he began pelting his boyfriend with the popcorn.

"You're hopeless," Kurt informed him, as Blaine merely laughed and ate the popcorn Kurt had flung at him. Kurt was fighting his own laughter at his boyfriend's ridiculous antics. He resumed munching on his pretzel stick, glancing slyly at Blaine as he quipped, "I'd ask you which epic pseudo-historical biography from the mid-nineties is your favorite, but I have a feeling I already know the answer."

Blaine pressed a hand against his heart, feinting offense. "If you're trying to imply I would ever willingly sit through a three-hour-long movie with a younger Mel Gibson's legs in plain view through almost every shot …" He leaned in closer to Kurt, eyes dark and sparkling as he smiled cheekily, "… you would be correct."

Kurt rolled his own eyes, even as his heart rate quickened significantly. Blaine was sitting very close now. Kurt could feel the other boy's minty breath brushing against his cheek, could smell that intoxicating scent he had yet to put a name to but which inexorably shouted _Blaine! _whenever he caught a whiff of it, and he very nearly inhaled his pretzel when a warm hand came down suddenly on his knee. Blaine's eyes were crinkling, a bashful blush spreading across his nose as he drew the offending snack away from Kurt's mouth, and replaced it instead with his lips.

Kissing Blaine, Kurt decided, was _fantastic. _His lips were soft, and full, and warm, and they tasted so _good _– Kurt remembered that highly-embarrassing question he had asked Brittany the previous year, and he was happy to conclude now that cheeseburgers had _nothing _even remotely in common with the taste – and he was sure that, if the need for water and bathroom breaks had not been strictly necessary, he would have happily spent the rest of his life attached to Blaine's mouth. They were still in the sweet and timid stage of their relationship; every move they made in regards to the other was hesitant and slightly fumbling, though Kurt personally felt this added to the endearment factor. Sometimes it took a few stiff-lipped seconds and a couple nose bumps before their heads would align properly and their mouths would relax, and while they had slowly progressed to clutching at collars and sleeves when things started to turn steamy, hands were expressly forbidden from wandering too far south or, in Blaine's case seeing as he still had a hand pressed to Kurt's knee, north.

It had been an unspoken agreement, that the two boys would take their relationship slow. They were both new to the whole relationship thing, and while each held a healthy amount of teenaged hormones within them (because, while they may be gay, they certainly weren't _dead_), they were also desperate not to, as Blaine had so adequately put it, "screw this up." Their clear outlining of boundaries did not mean either of them lacked in enthusiasm, though. Extra-buttery popcorn spilled from the bowl in Kurt's lap and all over his pants – something that would have caused him to have a conniption, had he not been too preoccupied by an armful of gorgeous boy to notice – as Blaine pressed closer, one hand cupping the back of Kurt's neck, the other one on his knee moving up to push gently against his chest, until Kurt found himself leaning back against the armrest. The position was less than ideal; the couch was about ten years past the "comfortable days", and Kurt was fairly sure he had just located the previously misplaced DVD-player remote, but he was far from caring about the insignificant details as he wrapped his arms around Blaine's waist, his ears and neck tingling with heat and his head buzzing pleasantly as he lost himself in the incredible sensations that inevitably came with kissing Blaine Anderson.

Sensations so strong and overpowering, in fact, that Kurt failed to hear the telltale sound of keys jingling inside a lock a long while later, or detect the soft creaking as a door opened. He became very aware of his surroundings, however, when stomping footsteps echoed loudly down the hallway from the front room, and the unmistakeable voice of Burt Hummel called out, "We're back, and we come bearing gifts!"

Popcorn and pretzel sticks went flying as Blaine scrambled away from Kurt at top speed, and by the time Burt, Carole and Finn appeared, each carrying a box of pizza in their hands, the two boys in the living room were sitting on opposite ends of the sofa, their breathing irregular and faces flushed as both of them stared wide-eyed at the television screen (which, Kurt realized with a cringe, had switched into sleep mode due to their inattention). Dear Cheesy Lord, could they have _been _more obvious?

In an effort to at least appear innocent, Kurt called out, "Hi, Dad!" in a breathless voice that would have been enough of a validation to the contrary all on its own, without the added evidence of Kurt's ruffled shirt and the nervous sweat breaking out on Blaine's forehead.

"Boys." Burt's voice was surprisingly neutral, but he was staring resolutely ahead of him as he made his way toward the kitchen, clearly intent on not catching himself an eyeful of something "inappropriate". "Still nervous, there, Blaine?"

"Terrified, sir."

Burt called over his shoulder as he disappeared into the other room, "That's what I like to hear."

"Hello, Blaine, hun." Carole paused in the entryway and smiled; her eyes widened as she took in the mess covering her living room carpet. "Kurt, what have you two been _doing _in here?"

Blaine said, "I sneezed," at the same time Kurt explained, "Earthquake." They glanced over at each other and grimaced at their truly pathetic excuses, while Carole just stared.

"Hey, dudes," Finn called, arriving at his mother's shoulder, and brandishing the rectangular box in front of him as he explained unnecessarily, "Pizza!" He lumbered into the kitchen after Burt. Carole hung back long enough to look pointedly at Kurt, down at the mess on the floor, then back at Kurt (which Kurt interpreted to mean he could look forward to a little one-on-one time with the vacuum cleaner later this evening), before following her husband and son.

Kurt and Blaine sat fidgeting on opposite ends of the couch for a few more minutes, until they had each ensured a return to regular breathing patterns, and that the last vestiges of their intense make-out session had more or less disappeared from their faces. When they finally entered the kitchen, Kurt's hands smoothing down his hair and Blaine's tugging halfheartedly at the wrinkles in his cardigan, it was to the sight of Kurt's family huddled around the island counter, paper plates in hand as they dug into the three deluxe-sized pizzas.

"Grab a plate and help yourselves, you two," Burt directed around a mouthful of pepperoni, sausage and extra bacon. Kurt raised a brow silently at his father's food selection, and Burt pointed a finger at him. "Nothing you say is going to spoil this for me, kid. I don't care how greasy it is, I'm treating myself. Besides," he grinned and clapped Finn firmly on the back, "we're celebrating your brother's victory tonight!"

"Your team won the game?" Blaine smiled sincerely up at Finn. "Congratulations!"

"Won? They killed it!" Burt cried genially, pulling Finn toward him and ruffling his hair affectionately. "Finn here shot four three-pointers in a row!"

Finn ducked his head sheepishly, though the grin he wore clearly showed how pleased he was with himself.

"They've got a good chance at a spot in the regional tournament, now," Carole told Kurt and Blaine, her eyes filled with fondness as she leaned over to kiss her son's cheek. "They win their final in-season game next week, and they're in."

Kurt and Blaine both made the appropriate impressed comments as they each grabbed a plate and drifted toward the pizza. Kurt took a piece from the chicken Parmesan one only he and Carole would touch, while Blaine, with a furtive glance in Burt's direction, grabbed a bit of the meat lovers'. Anything to win Burt's favor, Kurt thought to himself with an amused shake of his head.

"So, you two should totally come to my game next weekend," Finn said, once everyone had settled themselves around the counter with their food. "Everybody's gonna be there - Mr. Schue's forcing New Directions to perform during the intermission. Y'know - extra rehearsal time for Nationals."

Blaine glanced over at Kurt, eyebrows raised questioningly. "Sounds good to me."

Kurt, however, found himself hesitating. Rachel's previous interrogating, as irritating as she was and as trivial as her opinions often were, had been floating around in the back of Kurt's mind for the majority of the evening, and among their flirty banter and intense kissing sessions, he had been trying to work out a way to casually bring up the subject with Blaine.

No time like the present, he supposed. He cleared his throat. "Actually, I thought maybe we could do something else."

"Oh?" Blaine took a bite of pizza, seemingly intrigued. "What did you have in mind?"

Kurt affected a strictly nonchalant tone. "Oh, you know," he said vaguely, waving his hand around as he took a bite of his pizza. "Just ... something different. But not ... you know ... um, yeah."

Now Burt and Carole were watching with interest. Well, Carole seemed interested - Burt looked suspicious again.

"'Different, but not'?" Burt asked, his gruff manner back in full force as he leveled a look betweem his son and his son's boyfriend. "What the hell does that mean?"

Kurt shrugged and waved his hand flippantly again. "I just thought we could do what we do here ... only somewhere else." He looked significantly over at Blaine, who gazed endearingly back, very obviously puzzled.

"... You want to watch movies and eat pizza in my dorm room?" he asked Kurt unsurely, and there was a spluttering noise beside him as Burt choked on his mouthful of pizza. Kurt fought the urge to bury his head in his hand.

"Hanging out at Finn's basketball game next weekend sounds _fabulous_," he relented with a sigh, giving up his hidden agenda for the moment as a lost cause. He had well and truly forgotten just how clueless his boyfriend could be.

"Really?" Finn perked up eagerly, his fifth slice of extra-chesse pizza paused halfway to his mouth. He grinned hugely. "Sweet! Wait 'til I tell everyone else in New Directions, they'll love hanging out with you again, Kurt. You too, Blaine."

"It'll be great seeing them," Blaine replied eagerly, and Kurt felt himself smiling indulgently at the way his boyfriend bounced slightly in his excitement. "And watching you guys perform should be fun." His eyes lit up suddenly. He turned to Kurt. "We should totally invite Casey to come along with us! I bet she'd love to get out of Dalton and interact with some girls for a change."

Kurt felt his indulgent expression slide off his face almost instantly, and he watched with a sickening sense of impending doom as Blaine whipped out his phone and scrolled through his contacts. Across from him, Finn asked thickly through a mouthful of cheese, "Casey? Isn't she that scarlet girl you were talking about earlier, Kurt?"

All eyes swiveled over to Kurt, including a pair of surprised, slightly incredulous hazel ones. Kurt felt his ears begin to burn. He cleared his throat awkwardly, glanced down into his lap, and then shrieked.

"What in the name of Marc Jacobs' fall line is all over my _pants_?"

* * *

><p><strong>AN2: <strong>I'm beginning to run out of witty expletives for Kurt to shout out whenever he's overly-emotional.

Please review and let me know how you liked this chapter! Your guys' words help light a fire under my butt to write, and I'll be needing it for this coming week - the newest Sims 3 expansion pack just came out, and I've been itching to play it for days!

Until next time!


	6. Chapter Six: An Ominous Week

**AN: **Ugh. I'm sorry for the delay, but I have a reason this time, I swear! And no, it's not because I was being a total dweeb and played the Sims during every free moment I could spare (I only did that for, like, two days … _maybe _three) – no, the reason it took me so long to get this chapter out is … I broke my finger! I know! Crazy, right? A dishwasher at work bit me, guys, it really did. So it's three-thirty in the morning, right, I'm not thinking clearly, I give the dishwasher cheek, and it drops one of its doors on my hand in revenge. I'm telling you, machinery has been out to get me since day one. Seriously, I'm like Edward Furlong without the drugs and quirky relationships and … uh, boy parts. Me and technology just should never mix, because tears and broken bones is all that ever comes out of it.

So, this chapter ended up having to be split into two. It would probably make much more sense if I _didn't_ actually split it up … but I was pushing thirty pages, which is excessive at best, and since I'm still working on the end of it, I decided to post this part up now, and give you guys something to read and (hopefully!) comment on.

I'm almost done the second part, and hopefully I'll have that sucker out by the end of the week. **fingers figuratively crossed, since mine is broken and I can't literally cross it**

**Disclaimer: **Glee is not mine. If it were, well – something as pesky as _summer time _would not stop me from airing new episodes of Glee every day. Of every week. On a continuous loop.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Six: An Ominous Week<strong>

It took Kurt an entire week to come to the conclusion that fate – or karma, or the tea-pot dwelling gnome on the dark side of the moon … whatever, Kurt wasn't being choosy – was out to get him. Everything that could ever possibly go wrong, happened to Kurt within a seven-day period, and this wasn't him being dramatic, either. It was nothing but the truth.

It all started on Saturday morning, with a wrecked pair of pants. Oil-based, buttery popcorn stains, it would seem, did _not _mix well with suede, which was a damn shame, because those pants were _fabulous _and had made Kurt's butt look _fantastic_, if he did say so himself. And while Kurt couldn't exactly feel upset about how his pants had met their tragic end (because, as devastating as losing an important staple to his wardrobe was, his and Blaine's time on the couch had been freaking _awesome_), he had still bemoaned the loss of a beloved garment, lamented loudly to his family over the fact they had been his most expensive pair of pants to date – and then had his credit card revoked by an alarmingly red-faced Burt. Kurt's dad, who had never understood the significance of high fashion, had howled about mortgage payments, car payments, dying economies, and loudly explained how "_a pair of pants ain't worth three hundred dollars unless they're doing all the walking!_" There had been a lot of manic arm-waving and heavy huffing about like a wounded rhinoceros to accompany this, and when Kurt made the mild observation that the greasy pizza his father had consumed the previous night seemed to be negatively affecting his mobility, Burt had turned even redder before demanding the keys to Kurt's Navigator. A _complete _overreaction, Kurt fumed later to himself and everyone on his friends' list, as he had only made an offhand _comment_, which he had meant to be _helpful _… but Burt remained firm, and informed Kurt through the wood of his closed-and-locked-in-silent-protest door, that he could consider himself car-less for the foreseeable future.

And this had only been the beginning.

Sunday had involved a lot of grumbling from Burt's end and drastic eye-rolls from Kurt's, much tennis-match head-swiveling from Carole, and the usual amount of confused brow-scrunches from Finn. Dinner had been a tense affair; Burt had glared down at his chicken salad as though it had done him a personal wrong, while Kurt sat in fuming silence, his arms crossed in his lap, his face stony as he looked pointedly in any and all directions that did not include a glimpse of his father in them. Carole, who had just gotten off a rough shift from work, seemed to not appreciate the rather lackluster greeting her meal received (barring Finn, who had hoovered his in record time and spent the rest of dinner eying Kurt's untouched plate hungrily), had remarked on how a household full of such difficult men would drive any other sensible woman to drink, before disappearing upstairs for a "well-deserved, testosterone-_free _bath." Burt had switched his glare from his salad to his son, as if to say _Kurt _was the reason for the man's less-than wedded bliss, and when Kurt had dryly informed the sideboard he was gay precisely for this reason, Burt took out his frustration by shouting some more.

Once again, Kurt had been compelled to let his father know he was _completely _overreacting, and once again, his father retorted by reminding him to pack his walking shoes for school the next morning.

Because Burt Hummel was _hilarious _like that.

Monday turned out _slightly _for the better, if only because Kurt had awoken that morning to a text message from Blaine. A text which informed Kurt that his boyfriend, who had listened with a sympathetic ear as Kurt ranted passionately about the injustice of having his baby taken away from him, was on his way to pick him up for school. This had led to much hand-clapping and badly-suppressed squealing, not to mention an extra fifteen minutes devoted to perfecting his hair, and when Kurt had slid into Blaine's car at precisely half-past five o'clock, it was to the welcome of a warm kiss, and an even warmer cup of twenty-four hour gas station coffee. This had led to more squealing (though not more hand clapping, because scalding liquids had been involved) and many shared looks between the two boys that could only be described as _gooey_. Kurt was floating. To know he had such a wonderful, kind, thoughtful person as Blaine as his boyfriend, who'd been willing to wake up at the ungodly hour of three o'clock just to pick him up, steaming cup of caffeinated sustenance in hand, made Kurt's heart melt and his mood soar. Yes, things were definitely looking up, Kurt remembered thinking to himself, exactly two seconds before Blaine drove over a pothole roughly the size and depth of a toddler's inflatable swimming pool, causing one of the Volvo's rear tires to burst and, more importantly, the majority of Kurt's coffee to spill all over his blazer.

The following thirty minutes had involved much swearing (from Kurt because, damn it all, the _one _day he forgets to pack a spare uniform with him …), and more than a little crying (from Blaine, because it was his first time blowing a tire, and that sort of thing was _traumatic_). In the end the two boys wound up being nearly forty-five minutes late for school, as it had taken Kurt ten of those minutes to figure out where the jack was kept in Blaine's Volvo – Blaine's eloquent "Pardon?" when Kurt had queried about its location had been less than helpful, to say the least. On the upside, their impromptu stop along I-75 had allowed Kurt to learn that Blaine liked it _very much _when Kurt fell into mechanic-mode. On the downside, Kurt inevitably added mud stains and dusty hand-prints to his already coffee-drenched uniform, which invariably led to much more crying (this time, all Kurt's) once they were back on the road and he had had time to examine the damage done to his wardrobe.

Tuesday went much the same as the previous days. A freak electrical storm (because these things just _happened _in Ohio) during the night had knocked out the power to the Hummel-Hudson residence, and the first thing Kurt had seen upon opening his eyes that morning was the dreaded blinking red numbers of his newly-reset, and thus totally useless, alarm clock. Blaine arrived approximately ten seconds after Kurt leaped up from his bed in dawning horror, meaning Kurt had been forced to forgo his morning moisturizing ritual – something that, generally speaking, was simply _not done_. He had only been able to hastily run a comb through his truly tragic bedhead before clothing himself in the first garments he found which vaguely resembled his school uniform (he came close, though his tie had far too many sequins on it to be considered uniformly acceptable), grabbing his bag and sprinting for the front door. He had entered Blaine's car wearing a rumpled button-down and a scowl, which deepened significantly when Blaine took one look at Kurt's matted-down hair and promptly spat his mouthful of medium drip all over the dashboard.

Things progressed downward from there. An incident in French involving Jeff and a flying projectile Madame Gerbere callously blamed Kurt for, a Bunsen Burner mishap in chemistry which led to the destruction of both Kurt's lab notes and his partner's limited addition Leonard Nimoy wristwatch (Kurt privately felt he had done his partner a favor; his partner disagreed), and a pop quiz in history (about a chapter they hadn't even covered yet, no less), had left Kurt in a foul mood throughout lunch – something that had lent many of the Warblers cause for alarm, as an unhappy Kurt generally meant slights against their personal hygiene, and they had all been rather touchy about their grooming habits ever since the previous Monday.

And speaking of poor grooming habits, Kurt's demeanor did not lighten in the slightest when he entered the dining hall and saw _her_ sitting in _his _seat. Next to Blaine. _Talking _to him.

Colorful words had blossomed into his mind when Casey caught sight of him and offered a cheerful, "Hey there, Kurtie!" but he had restrained himself, not wanting a repeat of Blaine's _I-know-it's-weird-but-you-should-give-her-a-chance _spiel Kurt had had to feign contriteness through after his step-brother's "scarlet girl" slip-up the previous Friday. Instead he had forced a strained smile, pulled up a chair along the other side of Blaine, and spent the next hour perfecting his not-at-all-interested-but-can't-be-bothered-to-leave expression as Casey explained the differences between Georgia and Ohio, much to the delight of the amorous Warblers acting as her attentive audience. Kurt was rather impressed with himself, in all honesty: not once did he make a disparaging comment against Casey's drab witticisms, nor did he scoff impatiently at the pathetically _enthralled _expressions the majority of the Warbler boys wore as they nodded in perfect synchronization to Casey's description of how Ohio trees were "different, but not" from Georgia ones. Kurt was almost positive nobody had caught his reflexive eye-roll when Casey giggled about Ohio boys being much more handsome than the Georgian ones, however he had point-blank _refused _to simper adoringly like everyone else did whenever the girl let slip a "y'all." Maybe it was just Kurt, but he did not find an overabundance of contractions in someone's vocabulary all that impressive.

Wednesday, surprisingly, did not turn out all that horrible, despite the fact he and Blaine had been late to their after-school Warbler rehearsal, though their tardiness this time was for reasons _vastly _more pleasant than a flat tire. Fortunately for them, only Wes had noticed their absence (David had been too preoccupied searching for something of extreme importance he had managed to lose yet _again, _while Thad had been busy headlining the top of his Warbler handbook with the moniker _Thadeus Dewitt_), and when the Head Warbler had taken in the couple's distinctly disheveled appearance and identical guilt-ridden expressions, Wes had waved them away with a shuddering grimace, allowing Kurt and Blaine to slip into their seats without punishment.

Wednesday also happened to be the day Kurt received the wonderful news that, while Casey had been absolutely _tickled _by Kurt's invitation (Kurt had raised his eyebrows ironically at this, as it had been Blaine who actually relayed the invite) to attend his brother's basketball game, she unfortunately already had plans for Friday evening. "Rain check, though," she had promised with a wink and a quick ruffle to Kurt's hair.

It was lucky Casey had accosted him in a public area filled with witnesses, as everyone around them was quick to pull the girl out of harm's way as Kurt reared back from her touch, hissing.

Thursday involved the fulfillment of the detention Kurt and Blaine had earned themselves for being late on Monday, which turned out to be both fortunate and unfortunate for the two boys. Fortunate, in that the overseer of their detention had wandered away after half an hour, leaving them alone in an empty classroom for the remaining ninety minutes. Unfortunate, in that the overseer had been Mrs. Dunmore, the empty classroom hers, and the prospect of kissing under so many feline gazes proved too irksome even for Kurt to handle, so instead the couple had spent half their remaining time going over their chosen audition pieces for Friday's Warbler solo auditions (Kurt's – something sensible and in his range; Blaine's – yes, you guessed it, _P!nk_), and the other half gazing edgily over their shoulders.

It was after this detention when things turned interesting. Thad had cornered Kurt as he was exiting the history classroom, and all but dragged him to the residence hall, raving something about Diesel jeans and just how much distressed was _too much _distressed. It eventually became clear, after Kurt had entered Thad's dorm room and taken in what appeared to be the entirety of the older boy's wardrobe expelled onto his bed, floor, and desk, that Thad was the lucky fellow who had snagged a first date with Casey Dewitt for the following evening. Kurt's first thought upon this revelation was that Thad and Casey were a match made in heaven, and they would have the most obnoxiously talkative babies together –

"Kurt, Kurt, this crew-neck is totally me, right, Kurt?"

– and Kurt's second thought was he would never forgive himself if he allowed Thad to walk around in public wearing _that _shirt. The cut was all wrong, the color _atrocious_, and Kurt was certain he would be doing the people of Westerville a great service if he sneaked the offending piece of clothing out of the room and burned it first chance he got.

It had taken nearly two hours for Kurt and Blaine (who had wandered into Thad's room a short while after Kurt had been kidnapped, smirking at the resigned look on his boyfriend's face as Thad solemnly asked Kurt's opinion over a pair of socks) to pick out appropriate attire for the older boy. Incidentally, Thad had been absolutely no help whatsoever, as he had spent most of the time either quoting love sonnets, humming Barry White songs under his breath, or gazing dreamily off into space.

The rest of Kurt's family had already arrived by the time Blaine dropped him off, the table had been set for dinner, and Burt was wearing his seriously annoyed look. A brief conversation between father and son, wherein Kurt tried to explain the importance of a fashion crisis while conveniently forgetting to mention he had also been serving a detention, led to disbelieving snorts from Burt, teenage rebelliousness from Kurt, and ultimately ended in a second week added to the Navigator's banishment. Kurt had stomped off to his room feeling highly irate, and forcibly suppressing a keen desire to either punch or exfoliate something. He had switched on his computer, pulled up his Facebook with the intent of declaring to the world just how _unfair _a father with a serious lack of salt in his diet could be, and nearly bashed his head into his desk when he saw the not one, but _nine _messages waiting for him; all from Rachel Berry, and all extrapolating upon the various reasons Blaine may have for using Kurt as a cover to a) spy on New Directions, b) sabotage Rachel's talent, or c) shield his deep-seeded love for either her, the new girl Casey Dewitt, and/or possibly Finn.

Rachel's suspicious, passive-aggressive, quasi-jealous ramblings had Kurt dearly wishing he had given into temptation last year and choked the girl with her own sock. Alas, hindsight being twenty-twenty and all that …

After all the outrageous happenings and rotten luck of the previous six days, Kurt later felt he really should have been more properly prepared for the truly suck-tacular Friday looming ominously on the horizon.

"We're not late!" Kurt declared that Friday afternoon, as he and Blaine skidded to a halt just inside the Warblers' meeting hall, faces flushed and blazers askew from their frenzied dash down three flights of stairs. The rest of the Warblers, who were all assembled and chatting quietly with each other, looked up as the last two members of their group appeared abruptly within their midst. "And if we are, there's a perfectly reasonable explanation that has nothing to do with a cuff link getting caught in Blaine's hair."

Eyebrows rose from all sides of the room. Next to Kurt, Blaine was gingerly probing the tender spot on the back of his head, grimacing slightly as he did so. The whole room, noticing this, broke out into alarmingly similar, equally devilish grins.

Wes, while not wholly tolerable to Kurt and Blaine's newly-acquired tardiness, was fighting an amused smirk as he eyed his lead soloist. "Dare I ask whose cuff link?" the senior council member quipped, and snickers erupted around the room as a dark flush spread rapidly up Blaine's neck.

Someone – Kurt suspected Jeff – catcalled loudly, and Kurt tilted his chin up as he calmly smoothed out the creases from his blazer, not bothering to gift the smirking Glee club boys with a response. When a chorus of "_Blaine and Kurtsie, sitting in a tree _…" began echoing around the paneled walls (Kurt was both shocked and appalled by the word they all unanimously spelled out in lieu of "kissing"), Blaine's face had turned as red as the stripes on his Dalton tie. Despite his own fledgling dignity, Kurt found the sight of his boyfriend's burning face absolutely endearing, and he could not prevent himself from leaning over and pecking the heated cheek with his lips, smirking in satisfaction at the uncomfortable groans that issued from the spectating Warbler boys after he did so.

"Well, if that just wasn't the cutest thing I ever did see."

_For the love of symmetrical patterning, you have _got _to be kidding me_. Kurt let out an inward groan, his shoulders tensing instantly at the sound of the dreadfully familiar drawl. His head snapped around to the corner of the room from where the voice had wafted and there, sitting in one of the squishy leather armchairs with her hands held daintily in her lap, was Casey, her usual vacuous smile fixed in place as she flicked her hair away from her eyes, crossing her ankles and toying with the collar of her shirt in a way that had many of the boys in the room choking on their own saliva.

There simply was no escaping the girl's presence, Kurt decided to himself with a resigned sigh as he eyed Casey with intense dislike.

Casey gave him and Blaine a little finger wave, as though her presence within the sanctity that was a Warbler rehearsal was not in fact a criminal offense. "Hi!"

Kurt's lip curled. "What," he asked, in a tone that clearly stated the hair incident from a few days prior was still fresh in his mind, "is _she _doing here?" He looked pointedly to Wes, expecting him to intervene, because Wes was _Wes _and Casey was an _intruder _and that sort of thing _never happened _and _why was there not more gavel-banging?_

But then Kurt spotted the way Wes was purposely flexing his arms as he shuffled his notes in front of him, saw how the senior boy shot sideways looks in the direction of Casey's corner every few seconds, and suddenly Kurt remembered that oh, that's right, Wes was one of _them._

"Casey expressed an interest in attending one of our meetings as a spectator," Wes told him, and he cleared his throat uncomfortably at the knowing look Kurt leveled him with. He busied himself with shuffling through his papers some more, glancing helplessly at his fellow council members for support, but finding none; David was idly making a fortune-teller out of his Calculus homework, and Thad had his head propped up by his hand as he sent moon eyes in Casey's direction. Wes sighed lamentably to himself before straightening in his seat and telling Kurt formally, "The council took a vote, and found the group didn't see any harm in allowing her to sit in on today's rehearsal."

The Warblers were all nodding emphatically and nudging each other with their elbows by this point. Kurt's eyes flitted around the surrounding boys' ardent expressions before landing pointedly on Casey's exposed knees. His brow arched on its own accord as he stated with an acrimonious lilt, "I'm sure it didn't." He grunted when Blaine's elbow collided painfully with his ribs. He shot a wounded look over to his boyfriend, pouting heavily when Blaine mouthed the words "_Be nice!_" to him.

Kurt felt vaguely insulted. That _was _him being nice, and he informed Blaine of this in an indignant whisper as the other boy herded him toward the two remaining seats in the room, though his pout only increased when Blaine rolled his eyes expressively.

Wes banged his gavel the moment the two latecomers settled themselves in their chairs.

"This meeting of the Warblers has officially come to order," he declared importantly. "We're a little pressed for time this afternoon, as I'm sure everyone has heard about the mandatory closing of this part of the building for the weekend –"

"Injustice!" cried Kurt's second-to-last favorite person in the room.

"– due to the renovation that will be occurring in the library," Wes continued somewhat crossly, after sending a quelling look in Trent's direction. "This is why we'll be skipping reading over last week's minutes –"

"Which I actually brought this time!" David could not help but point out proudly, indicating an origami lizard sitting atop the mess of papers on his side of the desk. A few of the Warblers chuckled appreciatively, though they fell silent when Wes glared in their direction.

"– and instead begin immediately with the Kingston Retirement Community solo auditions," Wes finished, brandishing his gavel menacingly in his best friend's face as he did so. If there was one thing Wes hated more than spiders, it was interruptions during Head-Warbler time.

Kurt raised a hand in the air. The three council members eyed him warily.

Wes cleared his throat again. "Yes, Warbler Kurt?"

Kurt stood up and turned to the group, clasping his hands in front of him. "Fellow Warblers," he began gravely, "I find it prudent of me to point out that, while most of us may not have an issue with auditioning in front of an _outsider_," Kurt put as much emphasis on the word as possible, "some of the boys trying out today may feel uncomfortable with –" _the harlot's _– "Miss Dewitt's presence."

There were many uproarious shouts to the contrary at this, including those from the boys who were not even auditioning, yet above all the yelling and ape-like pounding of chests, Kurt still managed to make out the grating notes of a low-keyed, tinkling little laugh.

"I sure hope you don't mind, Kurt." The simpering way Casey said his name had the lower half of Kurt's face spasming unpleasantly. He resumed his seat slowly, eyes trained on Casey's corner, chin tilted up and lips pursed thinly over his teeth. Casey was still smiling insipidly as she continued, "Blaine mentioned y'all were trying out for solos today, and I couldn't resist the chance of listening to the voice I've heard so much about."

She then proceeded to wink at Blaine, like the _harpy _she was, and Kurt found himself fighting the strong desire to strangle something. His eyes fell on Nick, the innocent bystander who had the unhappy misfortune of sitting in the seat next to him; Nick started nervously and leaned perceptibly away when he caught sight of the seething glare being directed toward him.

However, Casey's presence within the Warblers' meeting hall turned out to lend a bit of an advantage to Kurt. Seven boys had signed up to audition for one of the three solos for their Kingston Retirement Community performance (it was lucky Wes had had the foresight to tack a second sign-up sheet to the door, as David's copy had met the same disastrous end most every other important document ever left in his care did) and while all of the Warblers trying out possessed strong and unique vocals that would complement their upcoming performance well, many of the boys' desperate need to impress the female in the room could be clearly heard in their auditions and, in some cases, visibly seen through their ridiculous attempts at suave dance moves. In the end Kurt, being one of the few boys in the entire group totally unaffected by Casey's presence (if, by totally unaffected, one actually meant grossly irritated), easily snagged one of the three solos, along with Blaine (obviously), and Warbler Russ, the only one of the straight Warblers who had managed to remember all the lyrics to his audition piece, even after Casey winked at him.

The way Russ had walked into the wall after said wink, however, had looked awfully painful … especially when that gilded portrait of Joseph C. Dalton toppled onto his head afterward.

"You know, I almost feel bad for the others," Kurt told Blaine later, as the two of them were exiting the Warblers' meeting hall. "I mean, obviously they weren't going to get the solos anyway because, well, they were competing against _us _–" Blaine chuckled appreciatively at this – "but still. Did you see how close Jeff came to knocking himself unconscious on the coffee table? Or how Louis' hair caught on the chandelier when he attempted that back-flip off the loveseat?" Kurt cringed sympathetically. "Talk about embarrassing."

Blaine hitched Kurt's messenger bag further up his shoulder (Kurt had tried very hard not to swoon too obviously when Blaine had insisted on carrying it for him) as he remarked teasingly, "It's cute how you're pretending to feel sorry about singing everyone else into the ground."

Kurt waved Blaine's comment away, even as his stomach fluttered with giddiness at the subtle praise hidden beneath the other boy's words. "Who's pretending? It was heart-wrenching, witnessing our fellow Warblers fall victim to their libidos and morph into blithering idiots, all because of a pair of pasty knees poking out from underneath an ill-fitted skirt."

A soft sigh issued beside him. "You've really got it in for Casey, haven't you?" Blaine asked, his smile wry.

Kurt sniffed imperiously. "Well, excuse me if I'm the only one in the entire school who finds her abrupt presence here suspect." He toyed with a loose thread on the cuff of his blazer as he griped, "There's no way a girl with her complexion could maintain that constant level of cheerfulness."

"What d'you mean?"

"I mean _obviously _Casey's 'look at me, I'm Southern and bubbly and my man enticers bounce whenever I giggle' is a front." Blaine snorted at the term _man enticers_, and Kurt frowned at him. "I'm being serious! She's hiding something, Blaine," his tone turned shrewd, "and with her tragic inability to accessorize, whatever it is is most likely sinister. Plus, have you _seen _her hairstyle?" Kurt's tone turned eager; he was really on a roll now. "It's as if she visited the _Stylists Without Thumbs _salon during a power outage – _not _the appearance of a woman with full mental capabilities, if you ask me."

"Kurt!" The look Blaine tossed in Kurt's direction at this was exasperated, though Kurt noticed the way the edges of Blaine's mouth twitched, a tell-tale sign his boyfriend was trying to hold back a smile. He held open a door for Kurt, informing him as he walked by, "You are positively vicious."

Kurt glanced over his shoulder. "Now, now, Mr. Anderson," he smirked, linking his elbow with Blaine's once the other boy caught up with him and eying him impishly, "flattery will get you everywhere."

A pair of dark eyebrows rose slowly. "Oh?" Blaine's warm arm disentangled itself from Kurt's and instead slid around his waist, pulling him closer; and even though Kurt had started it, he found himself unexpectedly slipping dangerously close to spastic-idiot mode as Blaine leaned in to murmur against his ear, warm breath puffing against Kurt's neck, "Where exactly will it get me tonight?"

It was almost unfair how good Blaine was at flirting. Seriously, where had he pulled that one from? Did it just _come _to him? Swallowing audibly, Kurt pretended to mull over his answer, partially to seem coy, but mostly to give himself enough time to relearn the ability to speak coherently. "Breadstix, say, six o'clock?"

Blaine dropped the playful banter almost instantly. "But what about Friday family night dinner?" he asked, staring hard at the side of Kurt's face and stumbling slightly in a sudden burst of anxiety. "Does your dad know you're skipping it? Because he'll skin me alive if you didn't let him know! Oh, my God," Blaine's eyes widened in sudden fright, and his free hand clutched at Kurt's sleeve, "you didn't tell him it was my idea, did you?"

"Relax, Blaine." Kurt rubbed soothing circles into the shorter boy's back even as he fought a grin – Kurt could not for the life of him explain it, but for some reason he always found panic-stricken Blaine to be particularly adorable. "My father is not going to skin you alive." Kurt hesitated, feeling the need to clarify, "Not for a Friday night dinner, anyway." Blaine visibly paled, and Kurt had to bite his lips to keep from laughing. He patted his boyfriend reassuringly on the shoulder. "Don't worry your pretty head about it. Friday night family dinner has been officially postponed until tomorrow. Finn's basketball team's throwing their families a barbeque-type-thing before the game tonight."

"And you weren't invited?"

Kurt shook his head. "My dad let me skip, after I pointed out the fact I would much rather gnaw off my own fingers than eat anything previously handled by either Finn or Noah 'sniffs-his-own-armpit-sweat' Puckerman." Blaine wrinkled his nose at the tasteful image – because, as everyone well knows, straight boys are _gross _– though he did seem inherently relieved to know he had evaded Burt's _People to Maim With Socket Wrench _list for the time being.

They stepped into the main entrance room, their shoes echoing loudly against the polished marble floors. A few boys were still milling about the vast hall, chatting together in small groups before heading off to partake in their various after-school activities. A few of them called out cheerful farewells to the passing couple, and Kurt returned a quick wave as he turned automatically for the doorway that would lead them out into the boarders' parking lot. He was on the cusp of slyly suggesting to Blaine a quick stop at the Lima Bean (which, if Kurt played his cards right, would turn into the impromptu shopping trip he had been dying to trick Blaine into ever since he first set eyes on his boyfriend's "_what's wrong with red and navy_?" wardrobe), but a sudden, articulated groan from Blaine had him stopping short and looking over his shoulder inquisitively.

"Problem?"

Blaine had come to a standstill in the middle of the hallway, a hand pressed to his forehead, the expression on his face flustered and distinctly guilt ridden.

"I can't drive you home!" he cried, punctuating his distress with a second smack to his forehead. "Tutoring," he clarified, taking note of Kurt's quizzical stare. "Mr. Robards tricked me into it last week. I'm so sorry, Kurt, I completely forgot."

"Oh." Kurt had to bite back a disappointed pout. He had been looking forward to spending the extra time with Blaine in his car; Blaine always let Kurt have control over the music choices, and they would spend most of the two-hour drive holding hands over the gearshift and singing show tunes at the top of their lungs, to the chagrin of the drivers sharing the road with them.

The prospect of no Blaine for the next two hours had the potential of putting a serious damper on Kurt's mood, and Kurt briefly thought about informing Blaine of this … but Blaine was gazing at him with eyes one normally reserved for the horrific mutilation of something cute and fluffy – a look that _so _should not have made Kurt's heart melt the way it did, because not only was that sort of demented, but it also indicated Kurt had become seriously whipped. And Kurt was not whipped. Not after a mere three weeks, surely?

Apparently he was, because one look from his boyfriend's pouting, _damnable _puppy eyes had Kurt stifling a sigh and instead forcing out a halfhearted smile. "It's all right, I'll give my dad or Carole a call, they'll come pick me up."

"They're both busy with work, though," Blaine immediately protested, though Kurt didn't really hear him – he had fallen momentarily distracted, watching avidly while the other boy began worrying his lower lip between his teeth. The simple gesture was causing odd tingles to zing up Kurt's neck, and he was almost embarrassed by how blurry his eyesight became when he caught a glimpse of Blaine's tongue poking out from behind his teeth.

Blaine did not appear to notice Kurt's inattention as he continued haltingly, "I could ask Wes or David to drop you off …?"

Kurt nodded absently for the few seconds it took Blaine's words to properly process. "Sure, I … wait, what?" Warning signals flashed urgently in his mind as he dragged his eyes away from Blaine's mouth and hastily replayed the words he had just heard. His eyes widened almost comically. "You expect me to place my safety and sanity into the hands of either Wes or David, two of the most hare-brained drivers I have ever had the misfortune of sharing a vehicle with?" He paused for dramatic effect. "_Willingly_?" Kurt eyed his boyfriend almost pitingly; clearly, Blaine had lost his mind. "I'll walk, thanks."

"They're not _that _bad –"

Kurt made an impatient noise. "David's burned through three transmissions since I've known him, and last month Wes drove his car – along with you, me, and his girlfriend, might I add – into a ditch."

Blaine leaped to the defense of his friend immediately. "He was trying to avoid running over a turtle!"

"No, he was trying to avoid running over a pile of sticks in the _shape _of a turtle."

Since this was perfectly true, Blaine conceded the point easily enough. "I just don't want you to have to inconvenience your parents, Kurt," he sighed, staring up at Kurt despondently. "I promised I'd drive you until your dad gave you the Navigator back."

Blaine's clear disappointment in himself for breaking a promise as insignificant as driving Kurt around was so unfairly adorable, Kurt had to mentally shake himself to prevent something horrendously soppy from slipping out of his mouth. There were witnesses, after all. "It's fine, Blaine. I'll call my dad, he'll grumble and complain about having to close the shop early, and eventually come and get me. Besides," he added, perking up as he experienced a sudden stroke of brilliance, "two hours listening to my _Tony Award Winners _playlist will have my dad begging me to take the keys to my baby back."

"Two hours is a long time to wait for a ride, though."

Hmm. Kurt had not considered that. He faltered as a second, much more worrying thought occurred to him. Kurt would have absolutely _no _preparation time for his and Blaine's date if he had to wait for his father to drive all the way from Lima to pick him up. Going out to dinner with his boyfriend sans the necessary primp time had Kurt's throat clenching with panic, and he immediately nixed his previous plan, as that was simply no longer a viable option. This left Kurt with a tiny dilemma on his hands, and he frowned pensively as he weighed the pros and cons between careening down the highway in a deathtrap captained by either Wes or David, or having the extra time he needed to perfect his coif.

Blaine caught Kurt's frown, and hastened to suggest, "Maybe if I go to Robards and explain the situation, he'll let me –"

"I'll take him home."

Kurt and Blaine both yelped as a voice spoke up unexpectedly from behind their shoulders. The two boys spun around, Blaine's face breaking into an easy smile as he did so, and Kurt's breaking into a – well, not so much a _smile_, but more a nauseated grimace.

Casey was standing there, holding her books in one arm, and twiddling a piece of hair between the fingers of her free hand as she smiled coyly. Behind her, Kurt could see a crowd of boys loitering at the other end of the hall, their gazes longing and doe-eyed as they trailed raptly along in the girl's wake.

"Casey!" Blaine greeted the girl affably, and Kurt tried desperately to stifle the possessive growl that nearly escaped him when the other two shared a brief hug. "We didn't hear you sneaking up on us."

Shockingly, the next sound out of Casey was not a giggle. "It's the shoes," she replied brightly, stepping away from Blaine and twisting one of her ankles up behind her in a fashion that had Kurt sending a look of twisting contempt toward the ceiling. "They're perfect for sneaking."

"Two seasons ago, maybe," Kurt muttered to himself, crossing his arms against his chest and huffing as he eyed the unfashionable loafers with distaste. He winced and shot Blaine a wrathful glare when the boy stepped non-too-subtly on his foot; those shoes were _Gucci_.

Casey flicked a bit of hair off her forehead – an _annoying _habit, Kurt thought scathingly to himself – before telling the pair in front of her, "I couldn't help overhearing your conversation, and it'd be no trouble for me to drive you home, Kurt." She shot him an irritatingly chipper smile, to which Kurt fought the urge to stick his tongue out childishly in response.

Blaine grinned widely. "That's so thoughtful, Casey. Kurt would really appreciate a ride home. Wouldn't you, Kurt?" Blaine said this last bit with a significant look in Kurt's direction, and Kurt sent him one of those _what? _shrugs his father Burt was known for.

"Come on, Kurtie." Casey linked her elbow with Kurt's, who fought back a snarl. He really needed to clamp down hard on this nickname business, before Blaine got any ideas. Casey leaned her head against Kurt's shoulder, something which deeply disturbed him. "It'd be a great chance for us to hang out, plus I've been _dying _to see a part of Ohio that isn't the inside of an airport or this stuffy old school."

Kurt was quick to the conclusion that the absolute last thing he ever wanted to do (besides the horrifying prospects of copulation with a female or attending a Michael Bolton concert) was sit in a confined space, alone for two hours, with Casey Dewitt. Which is why Kurt was having difficulty comprehending how – after a furiously whispered conversation between him and Blaine, wherein the abduction of treasured haircare products had been threatened on both sides – he managed to find himself sitting stiffly in the passenger seat of a _ridiculously _nice car, arms clamped against his front, staring stonily out the front windshield as Casey buckled herself into the driver's seat, humming to herself. She looked over at Kurt and smiled, and Kurt blamed Blaine for the all-encompassing need to inflict bodily harm that was suddenly coursing through him.

Because it was, essentially, all Blaine's fault that Kurt was stuck on this impromptu road trip. Blaine had been the one to insist Kurt accept Casey's offer, even after Kurt had declared rather bluntly he'd much rather take his chances hitch-hiking his way home (the resultant pinch to his arm at this, Kurt felt, had been totally unnecessary).

In the end Blaine won, and Kurt had found it exceedingly embarrassing the little resistance he had put up before giving in to the curly-haired Warbler. It was a hard lesson for him to learn, realizing his boyfriend could be just as stubborn as he was, and that Blaine had no qualms with playing dirty to achieve his ends. The way Blaine had tilted his head and stuck out his bottom lip had been completely uncalled for, as well as the light touch to Kurt's arm, and Kurt cursed the day Blaine Anderson figured out he could use his persuasive hazel eyes and disarmingly pouty mouth to his advantage.

"Think of it as bonding time," Blaine had whispered into Kurt's ear as he all but shoved the other boy into the car. "The perfect opportunity to get to know her better_._"

_Bonding time, my _ass, Kurt thought to himself as Casey turned the ignition and the engine roared to life. He hunched lower into his seat, scowling. _Damn you, Anderson, and your irresistibly sultry looks. _

"You don't mind if I turn on the radio, do you?" Casey asked, after she fiddled for a moment with her mirrors. "The background noise helps me concentrate on the road."

Kurt waved vaguely toward the dashboard as if to say, "_Be my guest_," without once removing his eyes from the front grill of the car parked across from them. Casey twisted a few dials, and Kurt reminded himself that he needed to be sure to tell his darling boyfriend exactly where he could stick his _bonding time_, as the unmistakable sounds of Katy Perry began emanating through the surround-sound. They pulled out of the parking lot and, after a few stiff-lipped directions from Kurt and oblivious laughter from Casey, they were soon coasting along the freeway in the direction of Lima, the car's engine humming impressively as Casey easily kept pace with the afternoon commuters.

The first half of their trek turned out to not be nearly so bad as Kurt had foreseen. Casey seemed to be one of those personalities who did not require an active participant in conversation; a fact for which Kurt was grateful, as he had reluctantly promised Blaine to "keep that biting sarcasm I adore so much" at a minimum.

The things Kurt did for that boy, he thought moodily to himself as he risked the potential for flat hair and gingerly leaned his head against the passenger-door window, gazing mulishly out at the passing scenery, and letting Casey's voice wash over him as the other occupant of the car spoke enthusiastically about her classes, her dorm room, and all the drooling, lovestruck idiots she had so demurely termed her new _friends_.

"I had no idea about the welcoming response I'd receive after starting at Dalton," Casey was telling Kurt cheerfully, her eyes on the road as she signaled to pass a slow-paced semi-truck. "I was so nervous, Kurt, you wouldn't _believe_. Not only was I moving to a state I've never been to, but also being the only girl at such a prestigious private school? It was a little daunting, you know?"

Kurt made a noncommittal grunt at this, not having really heard the question. His mind was preoccupied, as it had been for the last half hour, with mentally flipping through his closet at home as he prepared his outfit for later that night.

Casey let out a breathy laugh (Kurt's jaw clenched). "I don't think I slept more than five minutes the night before I arrived, and when I took in the building for the first time and saw how _big _Dalton is, I'm telling you Kurt, I nearly wet myself." And _there _was a piece of information Kurt could have happily gone the rest of his life never hearing. "But everybody ended up being so friendly and accommodating, and when Blaine took me around on that lovely tour –" Kurt straightened up immediately from the window at the mention of his boyfriend – "well, I knew right away I was going to enjoy staying there." Her eyes fluttered in a way that had Kurt's hackles rising instantly. "Blaine's just so _nice_, isn't he?"

This was around the time when the atmosphere in the small car switched rather abruptly from mildly abrasive to agonizingly unbearable.

If Kurt was being honest with himself, he had never figured himself as the jealous-type. That sure didn't explain the current sensation clenching hard around his stomach, though. "Thad will be glad you think so," he managed to grind out between clenched teeth as he bored a hole into the girl's ear with a narrow-eyed stare. His mind began working furiously as he attempted to calculate the probability of his survival if he pushed Casey out of the car at the current rate of speed they were traveling.

Casey seemed completely oblivious to the deathbeam focused intently on her jugular as she asked with little interest, "Who?" She spared Kurt a quick glance, seemed momentarily confused by the flat stare she saw being directed her way, but soon enough her eyes were widening in recognition. "Oh, Thad! Right." Her lukewarm response to the mention of the boy she was about to go on a date with could easily be filed under the term _suspicious_, and Kurt felt his desire to test out the numerous safety features of a Mercedes-Benz increase exponentially. His eyes narrowed even further as Casey continued with just a tiny breath's hesitation, "Well, he's just a sweetheart, isn't he? All the Warblers are." Another airy giggle, and Kurt was ready to say to hell with crash-star ratings and just hope for the best. "Every single one of them is about as charming as can be, aren't they? And I don't know how y'all manage to fit so much talent into one school, but your _voices _…" She trailed off and made an impressed noise, glancing over at Kurt for a second before returning her full attention to the road. "Especially you. Your piece was incredible. Blaine told me you had an amazing voice, but I had no _idea _…"

Having not expected praise from the girl he had only seconds ago dubbed _the enemy_, Kurt's intense disgruntlement was immediately replaced by shock. "Blaine told you about my singing?" His voice had risen an octave in his surprise, as was to be expected, though Casey gave no indication of noticing.

"Well, of _course_ he did," the girl replied, giving Kurt a look which implied he was more than a little dense for not realizing this. "You're all Blaine _ever _talks about."

Despite his sour mood, Kurt's cheeks flushed at this, and he relaxed against the leather seat behind him, feeling strangely light. Casey eyed him in slight amusement and chuckled again (though, for some unexplainable reason, Kurt did not find the sound _nearly _as irritating this time). "You mean to tell me you don't know about the running bet going on in the dorms about how many times Blaine mentions your name in an evening?" A head of choppy brown hair shook itself ruefully. "David's won at least thirty dollars so far."

Their friends were betting on how obsessively Blaine spoke of Kurt during the evenings? Really? Well, Kurt thought to himself as he swiped a hand through his hair in a distracted manner, this was an interesting turn of events. He had always been curious in regards to what went on within the halls of Dalton after he left for the evening (also envious and, all right, _maybe_ a tad suspicious), but to find out that Blaine spent most of his free time speaking about him … to other people … and enough to warrant illegal gambling! Well, that was … just … _good_, Kurt decided, hiding a wide smile with his palm.

Casey was off talking again, switching between topics at a speed only previously matched by a Vitamin D crazed Rachel Berry. And as Kurt sat there, smiling into his hand while he pretended to pay attention to whatever it was the girl was nattering on about, he could feel just the tiniest shift in his opinion about Dalton Academy's newcomer; a change in perspective that had him feeling much less inclined to remark snidely about the way her shoulders slouched while she drove. That was not to say he was ready to skip down the marble halls of Dalton hand-in-hand with her, trading boy-gossip and fashion tips, or anything – far from it, actually, as his disdain for Casey's over-the-top and exceedingly bubbling personality was still alive and well – but it seemed to him that Casey recognized and respected certain boundaries. Kurt could appreciate this and, if nothing else, at least felt his previous urge to shove the girl into oncoming traffic deplete significantly.

Of course, as these things were wont to do, Kurt's newfound tolerance of Casey Dewitt died a swift death at the next words he caught streaming from the girl's mouth.

"– And Blaine's mother is just a _doll_, isn't she?"

Kurt's fingers twitched. Oh, yes, he could see the headlines now: _TEENAGE LUSH THROWN FROM VEHICLE;_ _PASSENGER BLAMES SEIZURE_.

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><p><strong>AN2: <strong>Yeah. I know. Ends a little abruptly. Sorry about that, but it was the only plausible place I could think to split the chapter.

Please review! I love and cherish each and every word you guys write me. Next chapter should be up and running by the end of the week ... that is, as long as I don't anger any more dishwashers. I'm pretty sure one of the coffee machines is currently holding a grudge against me, though, so I'll have to watch out for that.

Til next time!


	7. Chapter Seven: Perspective

**AN: **I have no words to express my lateness. Literally, no words - I just spent the past month battling the most insane case of writer's block ever known. It was the bad kind, too: the kind where at first you think everything's just hunky-dory, until it hits you that every word you just wrote (all twenty pages' worth) is utter crap and you will never forgive yourself unless you scrap it immediately and try again. Twice.

On the plus side, I conquered the writer's block like the awesome mo-fo I am (AKA I begged and pleaded for my brain to get its act together and eventually it took pity on me), and not only did I finally get this chapter out somewhat decently (and longer than originally anticipated), but I also wrote out three _very _important scenes which will be showing up in later chapters. Which means ... I'm actually going somewhere with this! The story's slowly stitching itself together, and I'm so pumped with where it's moving toward! Please have patience with my sporadic updates, because I am fully committed to seeing this bad boy through to the end! I only hope I don't disappoint everyone!

Once again, I feel compelled to give my reviewers a big shout out. Your guys' words just ... gah, can't describe it. I'm honored some of you find my story so funny, and I about die of happiness everytime someone says my Kurt is realistic (because sometimes, when I'm stuck trying to figure out how Kurt would handle a situation, I find myself fervently wishing I had chosen to write a Finn-centric story instead). All of you rock my socks, and I sincerely hope you guys won't hate me terribly for what I'm about to do. Please, go easy on me if you review ... but I have to put a warning out there that this chapter contains the A-word: angst. Couldn't be avoided, unfortunately. I promise it'll be short-lived, though, because I'm a fierce opponent of Klaine angst, and I truly hate writing it. 'Cos Kurt and Blaine are just too darn cute for angst.

**Disclaimer: **Sigh. Must I?

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Seven: Perspective<strong>

"Do you want to walk around a bit before we find our seats?"

"No."

"… Okay. Need a bathroom break?"

"Just peachy, thanks."

"Well, how about we find some of your friends? You could text Mercedes -"

"I already did. Rachel's barricaded them all in the choir room for a last-minute rehearsal, so they won't be sitting with us."

"Oh." An awkward pause, as one boy thought furiously for another suggestion, and the second one glared disdainfully at a passerby wearing a lime-green poncho. Then: "What about snacks? You didn't eat much at dinner. How about some popcorn? A hot dog? Slushy?"

Kurt shot the boy standing next to him a frosty look before responding snippily, "Have we _met_?"

Blaine took one look at his boyfriend's stormy expression and winced. The ticket line they were standing in moved forward a few inches, and the two boys followed suit, Kurt with his arms crossed and lips pursed, and Blaine rubbing a hand against his eyes in a tired fashion as he mumbled, "Sorry, sorry. I forgot you and McKinley slushies have a history."

"That's a polite way of putting it," Kurt muttered under his breath as his eyes raked across the crowded lobby, taking in the familiarly unfriendly faces of the red-and-white clad Titan supporters crowding around them.

It was obvious to Kurt that the majority of them were eyeing him and Blaine beadily, unhappy with the couple's re-immersion into their conventional, Midwestern little world. The very first thing Kurt noticed upon his and Blaine's entering his old high school had been the various whispered conversations and finger-points being directed none-too-subtly their way, and as he had somewhat reluctantly followed Blaine through the gawking crowd, Kurt's crossed arms had tightened almost reflexively against his stomach.

A passing Cheerio Kurt vaguely recognized flicked her ponytail in his face and sneered, and Kurt returned the sentiment with one of his patented _honey, please _glares. Why, oh why had he allowed Blaine and Finn to talk him into coming here tonight? It was crowded, and loud, and horrendous color combinations and do-it-yourself dye jobs were ambushing Kurt's sensibilities from all sides; he had already counted five perms and three mono-toned velour jogging suits, for Gucci's sake. That was just _wrong_, even for Ohio standards.

Nothing about this abrupt submersion into McKinley High's masses could ever be the slightest bit appealing to Kurt on a good day, and he hadn't exactly started off his evening on a high note. He had felt bad-tempered and tetchy ever since he arrived home from school earlier that afternoon (though he forcibly prevented himself from dwelling too obsessively on the reasons _why_, as that would do absolutely nothing to help abate his foul mood), and one of the last ways Kurt wanted to spend his night was being surrounded by people who had previously dedicated most of their schooling career to tormenting him.

And really, it wasn't as though Kurt was a die-hard basketball fan or anything, either - he had still been a Cheerio the last time he actually _attended _a game, had never bothered to learn the rules then, and even the combined efforts of Burt, Finn and Blaine had failed to educate Kurt on exactly what those lines squiggling up and down the court were meant for.

Besides, Kurt was a realistic person; he knew coming to a Titans basketball game with a boyfriend in tow was just asking for trouble, so why, in the name of Rachel Berry's extraordinarily awful sweaters, had he agreed to subject himself to this?

Blaine chose that moment to glance over a Kurt, a hesitant, slightly unsure smile flitting into place, and Kurt suppressed a sigh as he answered his own question. Just as he had realized earlier in the day while sitting shot-gun through that torturous two-hour long drive, Kurt once again came to the conclusion that he was well and thoroughly whipped, and simply could not say no to soft hazel eyes and endearingly crooked grins.

A passing puck-head made a very rude hand gesture to Kurt, who tossed one he had once seen on HBO right back, a canted hip thrown in for good measure. The puck-head bared his teeth and snorted before continuing on his way.

So far, Kurt thought to himself as he glared after the hulking hockey player, this whole being whipped business had not been doing him any favors.

Blaine, who noticed the exchange, frowned at the puck-head's back worryingly before placing a comforting hand on Kurt's elbow. Kurt attempted to smile for his sake, though he was almost positive it came out more strained than reassuring.

"About as friendly as it gets around here," he explained with a shrug that looked more feeble than anything, and Blaine's worried look intensified.

The line moved forward. The people waiting behind Kurt and Blaine - a group of rowdy, obnoxious junior varsity football players, if Kurt's memory was serving him correctly - shuffled along behind them, and Blaine unexpectedly pitched forward as one of the particularly trollish-looking ones made a point of knocking his meaty elbow roughly into the Warbler boy's back.

Snickers erupted from all sides as people paused in their steps to laugh, and a dark flush crawled up Blaine's neck as he hastened to apologize to the older couple he had been unceremoniously shoved into. While they were busy assuring him no harm had been done, Kurt swiveled around to face the perpetrator, an acne-riddled thug half Kurt's height and three times his weight.

There was a dull ringing in Kurt's ears, his fists were clenched at his sides, and he knew his cheeks were flooding furiously with color as he sent a steely glare down his nose at the guffawing football player, but he was far from thinking about the disadvantages to having such a fair complexion by this point. In fact, he wasn't so sure he was thinking about anything at all, other than the blood whooshing through his ears and the angry quiver strumming along his arms and fingers as he focused all his attention on the group of chortling lugs in front of him. Kurt's thought processes seemed to fly the coop the moment he witnessed Blaine stumble, and his actions began leaning more toward instinctual rather than preemptive as he breathed harshly through his nose and drew himself up to his full height.

His voice was harder and colder than his look as he called out Blaine's aggressor: "Hey, ignoramus." The boy and his friends switched their concentration over to him, and Kurt mentally rolled his eyes as all of their faces contracted with confusion at Kurt's choice in words; it was clear the educational system in Ohio really left something to be desired. "I understand it's a difficult concept for people of your mental caliber to grasp, the daunting task of breathing and walking at the same time -"

"Kurt …" Blaine, who had whirled around in alarm when he realized Kurt was addressing the group behind them, placed a placating hand on his arm, and tried to pull him back around. "It's fine. Leave it alone, they're not worth it …"

But unbeknownst to Blaine, today had not been a good day for Kurt Hummel's nerves. Thanks to a certain short-skirted trollop who would for the moment remain nameless, they had been pulled and twisted and frayed for hours while insecure thoughts and wrathful ponderings ran rampant through Kurt's mind, and he found the prospect of letting loose some of his pent-up frustration too tempting an offer to pass up. Therefore it was rather easy for him to shrug off Blaine's hand without once glancing at him, and continue snarling at his boyfriend's would-be-attacker, "- so I'm going to make things simpler for you. Stop breathing. It'll do you a _world _of good."

He spared a brief, heated glare for each of the boys in turn - all of whom were wearing similarly gob-smacked expressions, Kurt's sudden and vehement rebuke clearly catching them off guard - before pivoting on his heel and facing the front of the line once more.

Kurt couldn't help but think that his outburst felt better than it should have. True, he was still seethingly angry, suffering from an incredible case of rage-induced tunnel-vision, and something akin to Red Bull spiked with fire was coursing down from his brain and into his extremities - testosterone, maybe? - but there really was something to be said about giving in to the occasional manly urge. There was a heady, almost _proud _feeling buzzing around Kurt's head at the thought of his and Blaine's roles being reversed, of _Kurt _for once being the protector. And while Kurt understood his response to seeing his boyfriend being tripped had been tame by anyone else's standards, knew perfectly well a physical fight involving him and someone larger than a twelve-year-old girl would more than likely end with him bleeding profusely, he still felt he had unknowingly gained insightful knowledge into the reasons why guys like Finn and Puck seemed so taken with punching each other in the balls and watching ultimate fighter matches.

Not to say Kurt was not a fan of UFC - quite the contrary, in fact - it was just he was prone to watch the wrestling matches for less _wholesome _reasons than either Puck or Finn did.

But unsurprisingly, Kurt's reprieve into testosterone-land was short-lived, and he came back to himself with the sudden realization he was still very much surrounded by a crowd full of people less than pleased to see him. He was feeling jittery and somewhat skittish, was still breathing heavily through his nose with his jaw clenched, and when Blaine's hand brushed against his sleeve, he jumped before he could help it.

"You shouldn't have done that, Kurt." Blaine's voice was low and wary as he muttered into Kurt's ear, and Kurt watched with narrowing eyes as the other boy threw a cagey glance over their shoulders at the still-stunned football players behind them.

There was something in Blaine's tone, in the way he held himself, by the tautness of his mouth as he glanced edgily around the surveying crowd, that had the jumble of frayed nerves sitting in Kurt's stomach lurching unpleasantly. While he could grudgingly concede Blaine was right, that Kurt had been more than a little foolhardy in calling out a group of hormone-infused and mentally-stunted athletes who could strangle him with his own scarf without a second thought, Kurt couldn't help but feel a little miffed at Blaine's lack of appreciation for his gallantry.

Which is probably why his voice had sounded so bitingly sarcastic as he snapped, "You're welcome, by the way. You know, for defending your honor and all." Because really now, it wasn't as though Kurt had expected Blaine to swoon or fall into his arms dramatically or present him with a handkerchief as a token of his gratitude … but was it too much to ask for some form of acknowledgement?

Blaine's lips had all but disappeared into a tight-lined frown, and his tone was low and distinctly unimpressed as he looked back at Kurt and replied, "Defending me doesn't mean anything if it gets you into trouble." He jerked his head slightly to indicate behind them. "That oaf in the middle probably weighs more than you and me put together."

Sometimes Kurt truly hated it when Blaine spoke reasonably.

Before Kurt could give voice to the likelihood the bumbling Neanderthal Blaine had indicated had less brain power than a bag of marshmallows - thus, easily out-maneuverable if the situation turned drastic - Blaine's expression unexpectedly softened. His frown, while still very much present, shifted more toward the indulgent side of the exasperated spectrum, and Kurt felt his own annoyance subside slightly as a set of warm fingers brushed against his own.

"Thanks. It was reckless and pointless of you to try, and you certainly didn't have to … but thanks."

There was emotion inflected into Blaine's last sentence; a feel to his words that plainly inferred to the daily struggles through which the two of them had found a connection and bonded over. It spoke of common ground and the breath-taking appreciation one held after realizing they were not alone in their troubles, and while the look on Blaine's face and his upward-rolling eyes easily showed how idiotic he thought Kurt's rather brash attempt at chivalry was, the warmth and appreciation blazing in his gaze as he brushed the lengths of their arms together had something as of yet to be identified contracting deeply within Kurt.

The unexpected clenching sensation left Kurt feeling slightly off-kilter, and seeing as the current setting really required for Kurt to have his wits about him, he took a moment to compose himself, before straightening his shoulders and waving Blaine's last comment off.

"Of course I had to," he told Blaine shortly, his tone brooking no arguments. "You and I both know the only reason they're harassing you is because you're here with me. Either way," his tone darkened significantly as he quietly added, "I'm not about to let some clumsy ape and his merry band of knuckle-draggers think they can push you around and not expect a response in return."

Apparently the ape and his knuckle-dragging friends had better-than-average hearing, for a noise which sounded suspiciously like the aforementioned knuckles cracking issued from behind them, and Kurt and Blaine both stiffened, before breathing two audible sighs of relief as Principal Figgins chose that moment to wander over to their part of the hallway, telling them all to "giving the whoop and add with it the holler" whenever the Titans scored a point.

"Achievement, children!" Figgins called out, waving his hands above his head and grinning in a way that had the people closest to him skirting away edgily. "Achievement!"

Figgins then proceeded to pull the boys standing behind Kurt and Blaine into an animated discussion about airline policies (Kurt did not even attempt to wrap his mind around that one), and the two Warblers shot each other relieved glances when the group of slow-witted thugs mumbled something about missing church group before beating a hasty path away from their principal.

First crisis of the night: averted.

The procession to the ticket booth shuffled forward once more. It was nearing seven-thirty, and Finn's basketball game was moments away from starting. Kurt sighed and tapped his foot impatiently as the line continued to crawl at a snail's pace. According to the way the space between Kurt's shoulder blades itched with the force of a dozen weighty stares, his old schoolmates were making it abundantly clear just how much they had _not _pined away for him, and Kurt wanted nothing more than to get into the gymnasium and away from them. At least in the gym he and Blaine would be able to blend in easier amongst the crowded bleachers.

The line moved forward, and a shoulder knocked into Kurt's. Whether accidental or on purpose, Kurt did not know, but that did not prevent him from wheeling around and all but snarling at the passing girl to whom the shoulder belonged, "It's called depth perception. Try it sometime!"

The girl stared at Kurt. So did Blaine.

"Are you all right?" he asked, sounding both surprised and concerned by Kurt's defensive outburst. He brushed his hand softly across the back of Kurt's neck, undeniably feeling the strain there. "You seem … tense."

Kurt rolled is eyes. "You think?" he snarked, closing his arms across his middle self-consciously and pursing his lips as he glowered at nothing.

The hand withdrew from his neck, and when Kurt caught sight of the hurt registering in Blaine's eyes as the shorter boy stepped away, he immediately regretted his harsh tone. Biting his lip, he reached reflexively for Blaine's hand, but as his eyes slid over a passing group of middle-aged women and took note of the unpleasant sneers pasted across their heavily made-up faces, he let his hand drop, expelled his breath in a frustrated gust, and remained quiet.

They stayed that way, in an awkwardly strained silence, until the line moved forward again. As the older couple in front of them moved away and the two boys finally, _finally _found themselves at the ticket booth, Blaine once more glanced uncertainly at Kurt before pulling out his wallet and leaning down to speak through the little hole in the glass. "Two tickets, plea - Brittany?"

Brittany Pierce waved energetically from the other side of the plexi-glass, hair as blonde as can be and expression as vacant as ever. "Hey, Kurt and Kurt's dolphin!"

Kurt and Blaine stared down at the girl, nonplussed. Indeed, Kurt was very surprised to see Brittany in a money-handling position, as he distinctly remembered the slim blonde spending most of their shared math classes trying to text Santana Lopez using a calculator. There was no denying Brittany had a sweet innocence about her but, in the words of Burt Hummel at his bluntest, fenceposts made for more intelligent conversationalists.

A phone buzzed somewhere within the ticket booth, and Brittany brought the previously mentioned calculator up to her ear. "Santa?"

Well, at least that explained the long wait.

Kurt was the first to regain his senses. "Brittany … _what _are you doing in the ticket booth?"

Brittany "hung up" the calculator and smiled obliviously at Kurt. "Sitting."

"Okay." Kurt's voice was soft and cajoling as he nodded encouragingly; it was an intricate, delicate process, conversing with Brittany, especially without Santana around to translate. "And how did you get _in _to the ticket booth?"

"Coach Sylvester lured me in here with a meatball attached to a string," Brittany replied simply, shrugging her shoulders. "Then she told me I couldn't leave until I counted to three hundred, but I stopped after seventeen because I only learn how to count by how many candles are on my birthday cake."

Blaine, not having properly participated in many conversations with the blonde Cheerio due in most part to an obscene amount of alcohol consumption and a general aversion to scantily-clad females, made a shocked sort of noise in the back of his throat, which he unsuccessfully tried to convert into an interested hum. Kurt, however, merely nodded sagely, far beyond the point of questioning the validity of the universe whenever Brittany's explanations made sense to him.

"Then people started coming up to the window to stare at me, which made me feel like a goldfish, and since I can't swim I thought I should leave - but I forgot where the door was." The girl tilted her head to the side thoughtfully, before beckoning Kurt and Blaine closer. They leant in as far as the plexi-glass separating them would allow, Blaine looking curious and Kurt feeling resigned.

"Do you know why everyone keeps giving me money?" Brittany asked the couple in a loud whisper. "Is it like the talking fortune-tellers at the fair, or am I in one of those naughty booths again?"

Kurt and Blaine's mouths dropped open simultaneously. Brittany blinked slowly at them for a few beats, before tilting her head the opposite way and copying the motion.

It became too much for Blaine to handle when, after several silence-filled seconds in which the two boys struggled to think up an appropriate response, Brittany clearly decided they had misunderstood her question, and so reverted to her old fall-back of communicating with the couple via unintelligible, marine mammal-like squeaking.

"Have I mentioned to you lately how much I love your friends?" he asked Kurt over the girl's pitchy squeaking, his eyes dancing as he pressed a hand to his mouth to stifle his laughter.

Even Kurt, the king of impassive facades, was having trouble containing his mirth. "Brittany, sweetie," he said slowly, trying his hardest to keep himself composed as he explained, "you're in a ticket booth." Brittany ceased her cross-species lingual attempts and gazed up at him blankly, so Kurt tried again. "Selling _tickets_." Another blank stare. "For the game tonight?" Still nothing. "The game you and the New Directions are performing in!"

Finally, a reaction, though Kurt's hopes were soon dashed when he realized Brittany was merely scratching her nose.

Blaine, the chivalrous fellow he was, gave one final attempt. "Would you like us to get you out of there so you can make it to the performance, Brittany?"

When Brittany responded to Blaine's query by asking him if all the boys at the gay Hogwarts had hair as shiny as his, Kurt straightened and threw his arms up in surrender. "Well, we tried. She seems relatively happy, and at least there's air holes this time. Give her the money, Blaine."

Blaine dutifully passed a twenty dollar bill over, proving himself a true gentleman when he graciously received two empty gum wrappers and a receipt for cat food as his change. He and Kurt said their goodbyes to the permanently perplexed girl, passed their "tickets" over to a baffled-looking ticket collector and, their previous awkwardness momentarily forgotten by the brief and bizarre encounter, entered the loud and bustling gymnasium.

"Wow, this place is packed," Blaine noted, sounding impressed and perhaps a tad intimidated as he followed Kurt up the bleachers to a pair of empty seats in one of the top rows. He glanced around at all the surrounding spectators, taking in some of the more uncouth shows of sportsmanship with widened eyes. Kurt did the same, and cringed bodily when he caught a glimpse of an over-forty wearing face paint and a cape, completing the mentally-deranged look with red satin boxers overtop black lycra. There were some sights that simply could never be unseen, Kurt thought to himself with a second shudder, feeling ill.

The lycra abuser decided at that moment to attempt to body surf, and Kurt was sure the sight of the man's massively shiny backside would forever be etched onto his retinas.

Blaine watched with morbid fascination as, across the gymnasium, three overly-enthusiastic soccer moms flashed a very shocked, though no less appreciative, Jacob Ben Israel. He pulled a heartily disturbed face before turning back to Kurt. "Is the basketball team really that good?"

Kurt shrugged disinterestedly as he pulled a handkerchief from one of his coat pockets and began meticulously wiping down his part of the bleacher. "They're better than mediocre, which is more than the rest of McKinley's sports teams can say." Satisfied with his efforts, Kurt passed the handkerchief over for Blaine to do the same. He then carefully stripped off his coat, folded it around his arms, and sat, grimacing when his designer-clad rear touched the hard cold plastic of the bench.

Blaine followed Kurt's lead, removing his jacket and tucking it around his arms as he sat next to Kurt, close enough so that their legs and sides were touching.

"It's been a long time since I attended a basketball game," he admitted, the eager note in his voice making him sound almost younger.

Kurt turned away from his critical inspection of the people around them to watch with muted amusement as Blaine's eyes roved over the shining wooden court below them. The shorter boy began bouncing enthusiastically in his seat when uniformed players appeared around the edges of the court and positioned themselves for the first jump ball, and he forced Kurt to wave with him when Finn glanced up in their direction. "I'm so glad we decided to come here tonight, aren't you?"

Kurt didn't answer him, for it was at that moment when, as Kurt had sent another cursory glance across the rambunctious crowd, he happened to look behind them, and his eyes immediately landed upon a group of very familiar faces.

Kurt felt his stomach plummet.

Dave Karofsky, Azimio Adams, and a few of their lackeys were sat two rows up from them; far enough away for Kurt not to have first noticed them as he chose his and Blaine's seats, but close enough for Kurt's old tormentors to easily catch sight of him now. The hairs on Kurt's arms stood on end at the unsettling grins he watched spread slowly across Karofsky and Azimio's faces as they held his attention, and he felt every muscle in his body tense visibly when the two football players sent him identical, limp-wristed finger waves.

Kurt slowly faced forward once more, feeling as though he had just swallowed half a dozen overly-energetic eels. Well, this was just terrific. _Fantastic_, even. The proverbial cherry on top of the spectacularly horrendous sundae that had been Kurt's week thus far. And Kurt wasn't even all that surprised, really, had been subconsciously expecting it, even: everything else that could possibly go wrong that day had already happened, so why _wouldn't _a run-in with Azimio and the walking closest-case occur?

But Kurt had dealt with worse, he reminded himself firmly, much worse than this. Really, what was the worst that could happen? The presence of so many witnesses almost guaranteed Karofsky and Azimio would refrain from trying anything too obvious (and in any case, Kurt had already scoped out their surroundings for potential slushy cup hiding spots, and so far had found none), and he was more than sure of his capabilities at withstanding whatever crude and unoriginal names either of the boys could think of throwing his way during the course of the evening. After all, when he wasn't safely ensconced within the accepting halls of Dalton, he was dealing with that sort of thing on a regular basis; one of the many perks of being gay in the middle of small-town Ohio.

Kurt's thoughts were broken as something that felt horrifically similar to a grease-drenched French fry flicked against the back of his shirt (Kurt did not turn to look, for fear of learning the suspected fare had also been drenched in some form of condiment before being tossed at him), and while his mind was vehemently demanding Kurt to _ignore it, ignore it, they'll leave you alone if you ignore it_, his shoulders still twitched violently as his body warred over the ferocious urges to either leap up the bleachers and gouge the fast-food flinger's eyes out, or run shrieking to the nearest dry cleaners.

There was a soft touch to Kurt's shoulder, and Kurt whirled around so abruptly he nearly toppled out of his seat. He stared over at the boy sitting next to him; for a moment, Kurt had completely forgotten Blaine was there.

Blaine, for his part, seemed thoroughly puzzled over Kurt's strange behavior. He glanced over their shoulders, in the direction of where Karofsky and Azimio were located, but either he did not notice them sitting there, or had yet to recognize them.

He turned back to Kurt, his forehead creased with worry. He placed a comforting hand on Kurt's knee. "What's wrong?" The concern in his voice was lessened slightly by the fact he had to shout to make himself heard over the roaring crowd.

Later, Kurt would blame the trauma of having calorie-infested appetizers flung at his Alexander McQueen pocket shirt for the way he completely overreacted to Blaine's innocent question. Later, Kurt would see himself completely in the wrong. Later, he would beratingly call himself six kinds of stupid, dedicate an entire twenty-four hours to apologizing to his boyfriend at least once every fifteen minutes, and spend the ensuing week trying feverishly to think of an appropriate song to sing to properly declare his remorse.

Later, all of these things would indeed happen.

But that was later.

"Wrong?" Kurt's scathing reply was flirting with the edge of hysterical, and he did not miss the way Blaine leaned slightly away from him, bewilderment spreading across his startled features. "Wrong? Why would anything be _wrong_? This -" Kurt indicated their surroundings with an emphatic wave of his hand - "is _precisely _how I wanted to spend an evening on the town with my boyfriend." Blaine opened his mouth to say something, but Kurt was far beyond the point of decorum, and he cut across the other boy, holding up his hand in between them and mockingly ticking items off with his fingers. "Open hostility, plastic seating covered in unidentified stains, varying forms of potato being thrown at my person, blatant crimes against fashion at every turn … you must have read my diary, Blaine, because this date is an absolute _dream_!"

Kurt ended his sarcastic diatribe with a churlish huff and bad-tempered scowl, his arms clamped defiantly across his front. He could not even be bothered by the fact a few wisps of his hair had fallen from their previous confines and now lay haphazardly across his eyes - proof positive that Kurt's wellness of mind was quickly deteriorating.

As it was, Kurt seemed to get his point across. He had certainly gained Blaine's attention, anyway, for the boy was staring at him, mouth agape and eyes wide, his expression stuck somewhere between profoundly baffled, and inexpressibly stung.

For a moment, the two boys stared at one another other, the sounds of the crowd and basketball game blurring around them, nearly fading away altogether. This was the first time Kurt had ever lashed out in front of Blaine, let alone specifically _toward _him, and Kurt had to squash down a rather insistent pang of guilt as it began hammering unpleasantly against his skin. It was unfair of him, he knew, to take out his frustration and insecurities on Blaine; but it had been a _really _long day, an _unendurably _long week; and the mixture of old tormentors, obnoxiously-dressed crowds, and unsettling notions planted into his head by the two most insipidly audacious girls of his acquaintance had left Kurt feeling in desperate need of alleviating some of the tension.

His methods of release were questionable, Kurt could concede the fact - and apparently, so could Blaine.

"Is there a reason you've spent most of the evening snapping at me?" When Blaine finally spoke, his voice was as quiet and unassuming as ever, though with just the barest hint of irritation beginning to poke through his words. "Did I do something wrong?"

Blaine failed to hear the trilling leer of, "_Hey, lady boys_!" that floated down from the top bleacher as he spoke.

Unfortunately Kurt, whose ears had been subconsciously straining for the slightest hint of Karofsky and Azimio's voices ever since they had made their presence known, did not miss it. Something flared inside his head at the taunt, feeling coarse and acidic as it trickled down his spine, before landing deep within his gut and leaving a sick, queasy sensation in its wake.

A part of Kurt wanted nothing more than to get as far away from his old tormentors as he possibly could, to grab Blaine's hand and pull him away from the judging stares and hateful names. But a bigger part of Kurt - the loud, insistent, stubbornly bull-headed one - was determined not to be chased away again. So, stifling both his anger and apprehension with a firm hand, Kurt turned away from Blaine and redirected his attention toward the basketball game instead, but not before the other boy caught a glimpse of the sharpening of his glare and the tightening in his jaw.

Blaine reached up to squeeze Kurt's shoulder, once again missing the lewd comments being directed their way by the jocks sitting above them. "Why are you so upset?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Kurt responded stiffly, his fingers clenching into the material of his shirt as he clamped his hands tighter to his sides. Another fry pelted into his back, and Kurt attempted to distract himself by dragging his eyes across the gymnasium bleachers and silently counting the number of deluded beings who still thought _business in the front, party in the back_ was an acceptable epithet to mold a hairstyle after.

"And by that you actually mean 'yes, there's something wrong, but I'm not going to make things easier for you by saying so,'" Blaine sighed, retracting his hand from Kurt's shoulder, and Kurt bristled, being of the firm opinion his boyfriend's gust had no business sounding quite so put-upon. Blaine rubbed at his temples wearily. "Honestly, Kurt, you haven't been this short with me since I went on that date with Ra -"

"If you ever want to get within a ten-foot radius of me again, you will not complete that sentence."

"Is this because I was late picking you up?" Blaine tried, wisely heeding Kurt's warning.

"I already accepted your apology for that, Blaine," Kurt reminded him primly, though making sure to add acrimoniously, "as dubious as your excuse was."

"The spider was huge! It was big, and hairy, and Nick _swore _it gave him a funny look -"

"Nick says the same thing about calico kittens."

"It was Wes who kept me from being on time, though, honestly. Come on, Kurt," Blaine's eyes were beseeching, "you _know _how Wes can get whenever a spider wanders into his room -"

Kurt interrupted him with a derisive snort. "Oh, do I ever," he said dryly, quirking an immaculate eyebrow at Blaine. "I was there when he locked himself in that supply closet when one fell out of his locker, after all, and then there's the whole _Study Night Incident of 2010_ …"

"You _know _about that?" Kurt likened the subsequent expression on Blaine's face to that of someone who had learned the lemon they just sucked on as a dare had been doused in cyanide beforehand. He appeared pinch-faced and horror-struck as he demanded, "Who told you? Was it David? It was David, wasn't it?"

"Was it David who described to me, in great detail, the evening he came back to his and Wes' dorm room and found the two of you standing atop one of the beds, clutching each other's shoulders and shrieking for David to '_kill it_, _KILL IT!_' at the top of your lungs?" Kurt hummed as he turned back to the game. "Why no, whatever gave you that idea?"

An embarrassed groan issued from the boy beside him, and Kurt watched out of his peripheral as Blaine buried his rapidly reddening face in his hands. "I hate my friends," he grumbled into his palms, his ears scarlet. "Remind me to put in an application for some new ones when I get back to Dalton."

"Be sure to slide one of those applications under Casey's door."

He and Blaine both stiffened the moment the words left his mouth. Kurt mentally smacked himself. _Smooth, Hummel, really smooth_.

It appeared that, thanks to Kurt's brain filter and its refusal to function properly while in Blaine's presence, they had arrived at the crux of the evening. Honestly, Kurt hadn't been deluding himself: he knew the true cause for his irritableness, knew that it had little to do with Karofsky and Azimio (though they and their appetizers had certainly been doing their best at exacerbating the situation) and all to do with the conversation Kurt and Casey had had in her car earlier that day. The knowledge that Casey Dewitt had been introduced to Blaine's parents had been gnawing away at Kurt for hours, churning unpleasantly in his stomach, leaving him short-tempered and mulish, even going so far as to leading him and a completely oblivious Blaine to sit through one of their most awkwardly stilted Breadstix dinners to date.

Kurt had been itching to confront Blaine about the parent situation, to demand an explanation as to why a girl Blaine barely knew had been introduced to his mother and father before his own boyfriend, but so far Kurt had been hesitating. Which was odd in and of itself, as Kurt was not known for verbally holding back; in fact, he was rather infamous around McKinley for ensuring his varying opinions were heard, whether they had been asked for or not. But so far this evening something had been preventing Kurt from speaking; a voice, which sounded remarkably like an exceptionally abrasive Rachel Berry, had been whispering niggling little worries into Kurt's ears ever since he stepped out of Casey Dewitt's car, most of which seemed to center around the likelihood that Blaine had been purposefully keeping Kurt away from his parents, and that perhaps Casey was being used as a conveniently-placed diversionary tactic.

Kurt had not meant to be so abrupt, to allow the comment to tumble quite so unbidden from his mouth, but the deed was done, and he could do nothing but watch as Blaine pulled his face out of his hands and blinked up at him.

"Excuse me?"

"Well." At first Kurt tried for off-hand, having half a mind to backpedal, but knew it was too late for that when he heard the accusatory note sliding in amongst his syllables entirely without his consent. "You two seem so _buddy-buddy _lately, and she made it perfectly clear this afternoon just how _eager _she was, and how _nice _you are …"

"Wait, wait, wait." Blaine was holding up a hand, gazing at Kurt in sudden comprehension, a half-amused, half-incredulous smile slowly replacing his previous look of consternation. "_Casey _is why you've been so moody tonight?" He shook his head faintly, his voice sounding more and more amused as he asked, "And how's she offended you this time?"

For some strange reason, the affectionately exasperated tone to his boyfriend's voice was suddenly very grating to Kurt's nerves. "_She_," he sniffed, "is, for the most part, completely innocent this time."

Taking in Kurt's pointed glare and the haughty lift to his chin, Blaine's expression instantly sobered. "You're mad at me? But what did I -?"

"_Why did that floozy meet your parents before me_?"

Kurt had expected many reactions from Blaine once he confronted him. He had spent most of his afternoon (the parts not devoted to his hair and indulging thoughts about a certain Southern girl's untimely demise, anyway) visualizing the ideal overcome-with-guilt-thus-immediately-confesses Blaine, the more predictable denial-is-not-just-a-river-in-Egypt Blaine, and everything in between.

Except it seemed that, somehow, Kurt had failed to prepare himself for the snorting-in-irrepressible-mirth Blaine.

"Floozy?" - If Kurt didn't know any better, he would swear he just heard Dapper Blaine _guffaw_ - "I had no idea I was dating the reincarnation of a seventy-three year old grandmother."

Experiencing a sudden stroke of benevolence, Kurt decided to ignore the dig. For now. "Really?" he drawled instead, lifting an eyebrow. "That's the part of the sentence you're going to focus on?"

"There's not much to say about the rest of it," Blaine returned with an unconcerned shrug, dipping his head to wipe at his eyes with his sleeve (Kurt scoffed at this; his word usage hardly warranted _tears_). "My parents stopped by school a few days ago, and Casey met them. Simple as that."

"Mm-hm." Kurt prided himself on his ability to infuse so much skepticism into a hum.

Blaine did not seem to appreciate the gesture, though, for his dark eyes briefly narrowed. "It's the _truth_." He paused, cocking his head to the side and scrutinizing Kurt closely. "Are we seriously going to have this conversation now?"

When Kurt did nothing but stare darkly at him, Blaine shook his head and sighed, all appearances of amusement gone. "Look, I'm sorry I didn't let you know about an unplanned meeting between my parents and Casey, but it's not as though I knew you'd be this upset about it."

It had been fleeting, but Kurt was sure he saw Blaine's eyes roll skyward, which was blatant copyright infringement of one of Kurt's signature moves. He flared up instantly. "Because being offended that my boyfriend introduced a _girl _to his parents before me is a complete overreaction!"

"Well, it's not as if I was actively trying to introduce them!" Taking a page out of Kurt's book, Blaine's voice began to rise in volume.

"Well, how come I wasn't invited to this impromptu gathering, hmm?" Kurt was rather appalled at himself for allowing quite so much _berserk _to bleed into his words, though he carried on regardless. "Couldn't be bothered to send me a quick text? A '_hey, the 'rents are in town, come do your boyfriendly duty_'? You're embarrassed by me, is that it? Oh Gaga, Rachel was right! Curse that girl and her women's intuition!" Really beginning to lose it now, Kurt turned painful eyes on Blaine as he pleaded, "Please tell me it isn't Finn you're secretly after. I can handle vapid Southerners and color-blind divas, but I draw the line at my dopey stepbrother ..."

"Wha - no!" Blaine was gaping at Kurt, his mouth opening and closing uselessly, his expression totally lost. "Of course I'm not embarrassed by you, why would you even _think _…? And what does Rachel have to do with … women's intuition? How does that … and - and _Finn_? I don't even know … Jesus, Kurt!" the shorter boy finally burst out, scrubbing a hand against his face as though to forcibly wipe the confusion from his brain. "I honestly have no idea where you get these thoughts from sometimes."

_From a short brunette with repulsive sweaters and a tights fetish_, Kurt's mind supplied automatically, though at the moment he was much too distraught to say it aloud.

Blaine was still rubbing his face as he continued, "I had no idea my parents were going to visit me. They were driving up to Akron for the weekend and decided to stop by unannounced."

"Then why did you ask Casey -"

"I didn't ask Casey anything! She just _happened _to be there."

A whistle sounded below them as the surrounding spectators groaned collectively, but Kurt took no notice of this. He was too busy narrowing his eyes dangerously at the boy sitting beside him. "And where, _exactly_, did Casey 'happen to be'?"

Blaine looked up and began warningly, "If you're trying to imply what I think you're implying -"

"Well, what else am I supposed to think?"

"Oh, I don't know -" Only a few of the truly talented could successfully pull off sarcasm, Kurt thought, Blaine Anderson not being one of them - "maybe that I have more respect for you, that I'd never do anything to lose your trust, that I'm _gay _and so very much _not _into girls?" Blaine's exclamation was loud enough to drown out the exuberant hollers of the people around them, and Kurt's temper wasn't so far gone that he failed to take note of the fact that was the first time he had ever heard the other boy raise his voice. "We were in my room studying, Kurt. _Studying_."

Kurt would declare a passionate love affair with polyester blends before ever admitting to the burning jealousy that shot up his neck and into his scalp at the visual Blaine's words provided him.

"Please," he scoffed, hiding his initial reaction behind seething disbelief. "As if that isn't the most clichéd euphemism for intense hetero make-out sessions ever concocted."

Blaine stared at him, seeming genuinely shocked and more than a little hurt by Kurt's accusations. "You're something else, you know that?" he finally ground out, his voice infused with frustrated anger. He began gesticulating wildly with his hands, a sure sign he was growing agitated, and several people glanced in their direction. "Here I've been the entire night, ignoring the loathing glares sent my way for sitting too close to you, being knocked into elderly people because I _touched your elbow_, and there you are, accusing me of cheating on you with Casey!" Blaine raised his hazel eyes to the ceiling, shaking his head faintly. "I can't win, can I?"

"Yes, that's right Blaine, make me the bad guy." That pesky guilt-ridden sensation was making a comeback, but Kurt wasn't quite ready to succumb yet, nor was he prepared to break down and beg forgiveness, either. He was justified, damn it! "Because cozy study dates and meet the parents fests aren't suspicious at all!"

"Standing in the presence of my mother and father for all of five minutes hardly constitutes a _fest_," Blaine countered, his words short and terse with the way he forced calm. "My parents hung around long enough to congratulate me on my good grades, remark on the unseasonable weather, and ask where Casey's accent came from. They didn't even take off their coats."

The underlying bitter note in Blaine's tone as he bit out the last part had taken some wind from Kurt's sails, to say the least, and was turning his argument more feeble with each passing second. Not enough to actually shut him up, of course, since this was _Kurt_, and Kurt was notorious for blurting out sentences best kept in his head whenever his boyfriend was around.

"I still don't see why you and Southern Bell _Dewittless_ need to be so freaking chummy -"

"Because she's lonely!" Blaine glared at Kurt as though this should be obvious to him. "She's in a new school, away from her home, and surrounded by guys who spend their free time plotting the quickest way into her pants." Kurt grimaced, being of the mindset that the less to do with girls' unmentionables, the better. "Are you honestly shocked that she'd latch onto one of the few people at Dalton who doesn't either stalk her, fantasize about her, or spend an inordinate amount of energy despising her very presence?"

Kurt didn't need Blaine's significant head tilt in his direction to realize that last part was directed at him. He squashed down the guilty sensation a third time.

"I'm just trying to help her out, Kurt," Blaine continued, his voice lowering to a weary sigh as the fight abruptly deserted him, and leaving his voice almost completely drowned out by the raucous cheering from the crowd around them. He shook his head sadly. "Contrary to what you seem to have convinced yourself, I'm not about to go against who I am _and _jeopardize one of the best things that's happened to me by cheating with her."

Blaine stood up from his seat at this and Kurt, who was blinking rapidly as his brain tried fervently to process the other boy's last statement, took a few seconds to notice his boyfriend was shuffling his way toward the stairs.

Kurt's heart stuttered in sudden panic. "Where are you going?" he called to Blaine's retreating back, his voice high-pitched with near-hysteria. His mind began forming wild, leaping conclusions, and he sucked in a breath. "You're not leaving, are you?"

Blaine shot a _look _at Kurt over his shoulder. "Of course I'm not leaving," he told Kurt coolly, his expression grim and - Kurt internally winced - disappointed. "I'm going to the bathroom, to give both of us some time to calm down and clear our heads before one of us says something we'll regret."

Kurt watched him go, eyes beginning to itch as he fought a sudden, insistent urge to cry. He vaguely heard a whistle blow in the distance, detected a distinct change in the surrounding crowd's volume, and thought he could hear Figgin's voice crackle brokenly through a malfunctioning mic, but he paid little attention to what his old principal was saying, too miserable to do much more than slump his shoulders forward and mope.

Well, if that was their first fight, it had not turned out the way Kurt envisioned. For one thing, he had foreseen much more groveling on Blaine's end, and much less guilty shifting on his. He had definitely expected more triumphing vindication on his part as well, but instead he was left feeling meek, abashed and more than a little incompetent.

Which, incidentally, was _not _a good combination of feelings.

Kurt had gone into the argument completely sure of his convictions, positive that the nagging, pessimistic thoughts he had been entertaining the better part of the day were completely justified, and that there was no way Blaine would be able to talk his way out of them. But then, _of course_, Blaine had to go and be all _sensible _and _reasonable _and insufferably _coherent _…

_And totally, completely in the right, _Kurt's inner-Thad dryly remarked. _You, sir, are an idiot. Serves you right for listening to anything Rachel ain't-no-drama-like-melodrama Berry says_.

Kurt did not answer his inner-voice. Partly because he hated to admit whenever he was wrong, but mostly because he was well aware that holding conversations with the voices in one's head was the first sign of mental derangement.

How was it that Blaine posessed such an effortless ability to make Kurt insane with affection, or jealousy, or just plain insane? Kurt used to pride himself on his level-headedness, on his natural disposition to remain unruffled no matter what was thrown at him, but this - this whole being _together _with someone was completely taking over his brain, manipulating his sensibilities and dumbing him down by the second. Another week of this, and Kurt was liable to find himself sitting in front of Finn's X-box, mindlessly shooting down zombie Nazis and mutilating his carefully cultivated figure with a bag of extra cheesy Cheetos.

His rapidly depleting IQ, Kurt decided, was a prime example as to why some people took vows of celibacy. Kurt personally thought marrying himself off to humanity's largest imaginary friend was beginning to seem a much more appealing prospect, as opposed to subjecting himself to the woes of awkward teenage relationships and unwarranted jealousy binges.

But the important thing to remember here, was Kurt was an idiot and Blaine was rightfully mad at him. Which was awful, seeing as Blaine was never mad at him, and Kurt well and truly feared his own brain's reaction once Blaine returned from the bathroom, as a besotted Blaine had enough of a negative effect on Kurt's intelligence; he shuddered to think what angry Blaine would do to him.

Preparing himself for a long bout of apologizing, Kurt sighed expressively and buried his face in his hands, whimpering weakly and desperately wishing for his week from hell to just be over already.

The lighting dimmed and the crowd fell silent, though Kurt didn't pull his head up again until loud and upbeat music began blaring through the gymnasium speakers. He perked up slightly to watch as his old Glee club filtered onto the basketball court, their costumes sequined and quite obviously fashioned a la chez Berry. Kurt smiled somewhat forlornly at the prospect of the spectacular fight Mercedes and Santana would have put up before grudgingly wearing the hideous overall skirts.

The New Directions fell into formation, and Kurt gazed down at his friends: Rachel, front and center (of course); Mercedes and Quinn on either side of her, both looking equally annoyed and resigned. Brittany managed to find her way out of the ticket booth, for she was there as well, standing next to Santana on the far left and facing the wrong direction; and Tina and Lauren stood to the right of Quinn, smirks on their faces as they nudged each other in the sides and pointed out lycra-man from the crowd. Sam, Mike and Artie took their places in the back of the formation and … Kurt frowned, glancing around the basketball court and doing a mental head count.

Finn and Puck were missing, Kurt realized, his eyes easily picking out the serious lack of male presence within his old singing group. There were two gaping holes in the rear of the club's formation, one on either side of Artie, and by the look of wrathful indignation Kurt could spot brewing on Rachel's face, the two jocks had more than likely ditched.

Why Kurt's stepbrother had decided to skip the performance, when he had spent the entire week talking nonstop about the "crazy, totally insane dance moves" Mike had taught him (and the only part of the evening Kurt had actively been looking forward to, because Finn dancing was truly a sight to behold), was beyond Kurt's reasoning, though he spent little time pondering over it, as the New Directions were beginning their first number, and soon after Kurt found himself once again fighting the urge to cry.

It wasn't the song choice that was making him teary-eyed (though the mid-eighties one-hit wonder song selection _was _a bit painful, even by Mr. Schuester's standards), nor the appalling costumes that blinked and glimmered under the lighting like a herd of revolving disco balls; it wasn't even the fact that a large part of Kurt was trying to tug him forward, stubbornly reminding him that down on that court, singing and dancing with his friends, was where he truly belonged, and a place he desperately missed.

Really, the New Directions Glee club performance had nothing to do with Kurt's sudden lack of composure. No, the thing that had Kurt fighting back tears, had him choking on his heart and desperately willing himself not to throw up, was the result of an innocent little _beep _emanating from his pocket.

The text message was from Finn, and was as simple as its sender:

_Get to your car ASAP_

It was short, cryptic, and severely lacking in detail, but was all Kurt needed to fully understand. He didn't know how he knew, or why it had come to him so quickly, but somehow, and very abruptly, it was starkly clear to him why Finn and Puck had willingly invoked the wrath of Rachel by missing their performance. Now, Kurt knew that Blaine's lingering absence from his side was not just because his boyfriend was still recovering from their argument. And most importantly, Kurt learned the truth behind the reason why he had not felt a single fry smash against his back for the last fifteen minutes.

Because Karofsky and Azimio were no longer sitting behind him. Kurt's tormentors were missing, Blaine hadn't come back yet, his stepbrother was sending him urgent text messages, and Kurt had spent the past fifteen minutes lamenting over the unfairness of relationship angst.

Perspective could be such a _bitch_.

* * *

><p><strong>AN2: <strong>... Did I seriously just write a cliffhanger? I did, didn't I? Wow. I am freaking _mean_.

So, it is ridiculously difficult to make angst funny, as I learned the hard way. I have a feeling I made Kurt a tad too accusing, but the poor boy's in his first relationship with an insanely handsome dude - it's understandable he's not thinking straight (har).

There will be oodles of explanation in the next chapter, a moment that will make you squee for Burt, a cameo from Noah "badass number wah" Puckerman, and maybe even a return of the Warblers!

Reviews are love, guys, and I'm a-hankerin' for some! (I'm also so desperate I've resorted to using words like "hankerin'").


	8. Chapter Eight: Hysteria, Thy Name is

**AN: **You guys … _you guys. _You. Guys.

One hundred and three reviews. _One hundred and three reviews! _I can't even begin to describe how overjoyed that makes me, you have no idea. This is - just … _wow_. I never expected my little story - the writing exercise I had originally intended to be nothing more than a stress-relieving oneshot - would gain so much wonderful feedback. Consider my mind officially blown. This is so - it's so … just … guh.

Every last one of my readers, reviewers, alert-ers, and/or favorite-ers: you are the highlight of my day. You are making this experience worth so much more than I ever thought it could be, and I'm so humbled by each and every kind thought and encouraging word you send me. I'm writing this story with a smile on my face because of you guys, and I want to thank you all for helping me to remember just how much I love doing this. It's been too long.

Oh, and before I forget: my darling little sister created this story's first ever fanart! They are so cute and I am so effing proud of them, because she's just a little ball of talent and someone likes my story enough to _draw art _for it, and … and it's almost ridiculous just how much sunshine is spewing out of my ears right now. I'm freaking _giddy_.

The links are on my profile. Check 'em out if you want to see Kurt being ornery, Blaine being oblivious, and Casey being cheery!

**Disclaimer: **Don't own Glee, but so don't care right now because _one hundred and three freakin' reviews!  
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><p><strong>Chapter Eight: Hysteria, Thy Name is Kurt<br>**

A distraught wail: "They mauled him. _Mauled _him!"

An incredulous response: "Dude, you're thinking about shopping at a time like this? That's cold."

An unconcerned opinion: "I don't get why you're freaking out so much, Hummel. He looks like a total badass now."

An even more distraught shriek: "He is bleeding all over the kitchen table, and you're asking me why I'm _freaking out_?"

A soft-spoken request: "Hun, tilt your head to the right, that's it …"

A flurry of panicked questions: "Is it bad? Does he need stitches? Why is it turning that color? _Should it be that color_?"

A wearied sigh: "Kurt, calm down, I'm fi - _ow_!"

A hysterical retort: "People who bleed that much onto leather upholstery are _not fine_!"

And, throughout all of this, a bellowed argument in the background: "… _I don't care who you have to call in on their day off, I want someone sent to those punks' houses tonight! _…"

The best word to describe the current setting within the Hummel-Hudsons' kitchen would be _chaotic_. People were scattered all over the slightly cramped space. Blaine, the injured one, was slumped into a chair at the kitchen table, the left side of his face battered and puffy, the skin on his cheek already discoloring and tingeing deep purples and alarming blues. Dark red stains spotted Blaine's collar and pooled onto his crumpled shirt, showing where blood from a gash above his brow had dribbled down the side of his face and neck. His hair had escaped its previous gel stronghold during the altercation that led to his injuries, and uncontained curls were now spilling over his forehead and ears, adding a distinct sense of vulnerability to his down-trodden look. He was smiling wanly though; putting on a brave front for everyone as he kept insisting he was fine, however the injured side of his face gave him away, twitching every so often with the occasional pained grimace.

Carole was sat next to Blaine, calm and collected, and in full nurse-mode. A first-aid kit and a few bloody dish towels lay at her elbows as she carefully tilted Blaine's head this way and that, prodding at the seeping gash overtop his left eye with a ball of gauze. Her brow was furrowed with motherly concern as she meticulously cleaned the sizable wound, murmuring soft apologies and encouraging words every time the boy within her care winced.

Leaning against the kitchen counter were Finn and Puck, their expressions confused and disinterested respectively, both still wearing their sweaty basketball uniforms. It was clear that, despite the somber atmosphere within the house, the two jocks were feeling inordinately pleased with themselves: Puck was proudly sporting a set of rapidly bruising knuckles and a bloody nose, and Finn seemed positively thrilled about his split lip and the fact he cringed in pain whenever he flexed the fingers of his right hand. Their chests were puffed out and their eyes bright, and though they both knew better than to bust out pleased grins while in the presence of a hysterical countertenor who had single-handedly managed to aptly rename a vicious kick to the groin as "_getting Hummel'd_", that did not stop them from nudging elbows and bestowing upon each other the occasional impressed, "_Dude_."

Burt was stomping an agitated path around the entire first floor of the house, a cordless phone glued to his ear as he barked out demands and shouted profanities at the people on the opposite end of the line. Every now and then he would wave his free arm above his head as he yelled, or take off his ball cap and rub fiercely at his bald spot. Occasionally the person on the other end would say something and Burt would falter, his face slackening for the briefest of seconds as his eyes flittered around the kitchen unsurely. But then his gaze would land on Blaine, would take in the slumped shoulders and swelling cheek, the profusely bleeding eye, and his own eyes would harden determinedly before he continued on his shouting escapade with renewed vigor, voice rising in volume as he sought to use the most creative swear words he could think up.

Bleeding, tutting, preening, shouting … everyone was adding to the chaos in the kitchen in some form or other, but none so much as Kurt. Burt's hollering, Puck and Finn's guffawing, the odd pained yelp from Blaine; none of that could compare to the unbridled package of _crazy _that was Kurt Hummel at that present moment in time.

To put it mildly, Kurt was an absolute wreck. He had been so ever since he exited McKinley High at a sprint and came upon the scene of Finn and Puck trying to haul his bloodied and battered boyfriend into the backseat of the Navigator. The world may as well have stopped spinning the moment Kurt's eyes zeroed in on Blaine, for anything and everything not sharing an immediate connection with Kurt's boyfriend and his wellness of health had simply ceased to matter. Even the fact that Finn had obviously driven Kurt's baby without his expressed permission managed to slip by Kurt unnoticed (though eventually Kurt would remember, and his step-brother would come to rue the day he ever used a computer without putting password protection on it first).

One look at Blaine, with an arm looped around both Finn and Puck's shoulders, his toes barely touching the ground due to the significant height difference between him and his supporters, had Kurt's emotions flying everywhere, bringing him to an abrupt halt as they gained intensity with each passing second, fluctuating so quickly he barely had time to register them before they were switching into something new.

From all-consuming panic due to Finn's elusively worded text message; to heart-stuttering relief at seeing Blaine in one piece; to worry that Blaine was _barely _in one piece; to fierce pride at the fact that, swollen face or no, Blaine still managed a weak smile when he spotted Kurt; to red-visioned fury at the thought that anyone would _dare _touch a person as sweet and compassionate as Blaine with anything less than the utmost respect he deserved; to gut-wrenching guilt at the burning realization the perpetrators had only gotten to Blaine because Kurt had pushed him away first; and then back to panic when he took note of just how much red was seeping from Blaine's eyebrow.

That is when the hysterical crying had started. Kurt had never been a fan of blood - his father made it a point at Christmas parties to chortingly recall Kurt's infamous paring knife mishap when he was fourteen, which had resulted in a sliced-off knuckle, an ear-splitting shriek that set off the smoke detectors, and a face-plant into an unfinished chocolate trifle. But Kurt's slightly-queasy, nose-wrinkling discomfort that would normally accompany being around the amount of blood trickling from Blaine's eye had instead turned into something much more demanding, and seriously more drastic. It hit Kurt like a semi-truck: the stomach-clenching nausea that had his _capellini pomodoro _attempting a comeback tour was menacing and insistent, making his vision swim and his knees shake, and left him battling between the strong urges to either stand blubbering pathetically in the middle of McKinley High's parking lot, or hurl spectacularly behind a nearby Honda.

Because it was one thing for Kurt to cut off a (relatively small) part of his anatomy; but it was a whole other thing for him to see for his own eyes the boy he cared about in pain, and understanding with a sickening sense of clarity that he, Kurt was completely to blame for it.

Nothing could abate Kurt's fevered anguish, not even Blaine's insistent placations, which had begun issuing from the curly-haired boy's mouth the moment he took note of Kurt's paling face and rapidly falling tears. Somehow his boyfriend's continuous stream of, "It's all right, Kurt, it barely hurts at all," had computed in Kurt's mind as, "I'm slowly dying, Kurt, and am laying in dappered agony," and coupling that with a seeping head wound, well … suffice it to say the ten-minute drive between McKinley High and the Hummel-Hudson abode had been fairly eventful, for everyone involved.

Finn had opted to drive with Puck riding shotgun, and Kurt's lack of resistance to this foolhardy plan had been true testament to how utterly far gone he had fallen into frantic-hysterical mode. He and Blaine had taken up the entire length of the backseat, with Blaine's head resting securely in Kurt's lap, and Kurt's crying was made all the more weepy when at first Blaine woozily protested the position, in deference to keeping Kurt's fantastic jeans free of bloodstains.

Kurt was so touched by the gesture (not enough to refrain from plaintively declaring Blaine a delirious idiot for ever thinking a pair of jeans was more important than his comfort, but still - touched), that he only spent half of the car ride declaring fierce and diabolical retribution upon Blaine's attackers, devoting the rest of his time switching between cooing over Blaine's injuries with watery eyes and a wobbly voice, and shrilling at Finn to "_at least do the speed limit, you yield-happy imbecile, he's bleeding out back here!_"

"Dude, the speed limit's, like, twenty-five the whole way home. I don't know how else you expect me to -"

"Cheesus, Finn, eyes on the road, eyes on the road! Do you _want _us to crash? Sweet Givenchy, what basement-dwelling numbskull signed off on your license?"

"Keep up the backseat prissing, Hummel, and I'll _welcome _a head-on collision."

"You're already on my list, Puckerman!"

"Sheesh, some thanks I get for saving your Gargler from a second close encounter with a fist."

"Technically it was the locker that cut my eye. I didn't actually get _hit_ with a fist -"

"Shh, Blaine, don't strain yourself - I'll get the heathens up front to stop being so insensitive, I promise. I'm sorry this happened to you; so, so _sorry_ …"

Oh, and apologizing. There had been lots and lots of apologizing.

Kurt had found himself so distraught, so thoroughly guilt-ridden and overwhelmingly upset in the face of Blaine's pitiable state, he had lost all control over his mouth and what came pouring out of it. Every other word spilling from Kurt that wasn't a hiccoughing sob was an apology for some part of their disastrous outing: he apologized for their argument, for acting like a clingy, jealous, insensitive idiot and heedlessly accusing Blaine of cheating; he spoke regret over allowing Blaine out of his sight, when he _knew _Karofsky and Azimio had been sitting right behind them; he lamented over the fact he hadn't managed to punch the living daylights out of that troll who pushed Blaine in the ticket line; and promised many pain-filled days in each and every McKinley jock's near future. He apologized for ruining their dinner at Breadstix, for being churlish and moody, for the sneers and disgusted grumblings, for Brittany stiffing Blaine twelve dollars, for lycra-man and his lustrous backside -

"Kurt," Blaine had mumbled at one point, cutting across Kurt's ramblings and reaching up a shaky hand to cup his cheek (and, oh boy, if Kurt thought he had been sobbing_ before_ …), "I appreciate the gesture, but if you apologize to me one more time, I won't feel the least bit sorry for staining your seats."

Mention of the inevitable fate of his baby's upholstery had almost sufficiently distracted Kurt.

"Blaine, why are you blinking so slowly? Have you always blinked that slowly? Wait, you're not sleepy, are you? Did they hit your head? Are you concussed? Oh, sweet Cheesus, you're concussed! Stay awake, Blaine! Fight the urge! Keep your eyes open and, for Versace's sake, avoid all tunnels and bright lights!"

… Almost.

Eventually Finn came to a screeching halt in their driveway, Burt's pick-up rolling to a stop next to the Lincoln a moment later (Puck, in a rare moment of sensitivity, had thought to shoot a quick text to the Hudmel parents explaining the situation), and there was a flurry of slamming car doors and loud voices as everybody flooded from their respective vehicles and began demanding answers from one another. Carole was the one to eventually take charge, shouting over the noise and firmly instructing the boys to get Blaine inside the house ("Oh my God, Kurt, tell your brother to _put me down_, I can still walk!"), and she led them through the front door, muttering to herself about cold compresses and alcohol wipes.

Finn and Puck followed Carole, supporting a vehemently protesting Blaine over the threshold, ignoring the shorter boy's insistence that he was fine, really, and to quit treating him like some distressed damsel. It was easy enough for them to disregard Blaine's demands, seeing as his eyes were slightly crossed and he kept glaring defiantly at a point two inches to the right of Finn's ear.

Kurt had flittered into the house on the heels of the three boys, his hands clenched tightly over his and Blaine's coats, his steady stream of tears not hindering him in the slightest from viciously snapping at Puck, promising to come after the other boy's Mohawk with clippers if the jock bumped Blaine into a doorframe one more time. He had darted forward to pull out a chair for his boyfriend, looking on with wet eyes and a horrifically dripping nose as Finn and Puck slowly lowered Blaine into it. The coats were soon after discarded rather unceremoniously onto the kitchen counter (Kurt would later blame panic-induced amnesia for making him forget that was an _Alexander McQueen _he just tossed onto the cutting board), Kurt opting instead to wring his fingers together, bouncing slightly on the spot with anxious energy, unsure of how to best help ease Blaine's suffering. It had been around this time when Carole returned to the kitchen with towels and bandages at the ready, shooing the boys away from the table with a few well-placed hand flutters, and Kurt had never been so relieved to have a nurse for his step-mother as he did in that moment.

Burt had stomped into the room by this point, his face growing steadily redder as his narrowed eyes took in Blaine's rumpled state. He had grunted out one word - "Karofsky?" - and a wearied, somewhat reluctant nod from Blaine was all Burt needed for him to stride over to the kitchen phone, expression thunderous and foreboding as he beckoned Finn and Puck over to present him with a more in-depth explanation.

And that, in a nutshell, was how the current setting came to be. Carole was still fussing over Blaine's eye, Blaine all the while splitting his time between telling anyone who would listen (in other words, no one) that he was fine, and thanking Carole profusely for all the trouble she was going to; Burt was still on the phone to the police station, loudly demanding action; Finn and Puck continued to give a play-by-play of what went down after they happened upon Blaine being accosted by Karofsky and Azimio, taking care to paint themselves as the badass heroes of the hour; and Kurt was continuously circling the kitchen table, eyeing Blaine's every movement beadily, taking a few seconds here or there to either shoot a frantic question at Carole, hover uncomfortably close behind her shoulder, or hiss curse words under his breath in French.

"Kurt." Blaine snagged Kurt's hand on one of his many revolutions around the table, holding fast and peering up at him through the lashes of his one good eye. "Please stop pacing. You're making me dizzy."

Kurt never could resist Blaine's puppy eyes, and was quick to the conclusion that half the look managed to have twice the affect on him. He immediately plonked down into the seat next to Blaine, covering the other's hand with both his own as he gazed tremulously at him.

"How's your head?" he asked him in a tone generally saved for people on their deathbeds. His quavering question was barely distinguishable over Burt's hollered, "… _what d'you mean, you don't appreciate my tone? My taxes pay for your coffee breaks, I think I'm entitled to have some damn tone! _…"

"Is it agony?" Kurt continued, suppressing a sympathetic sob as Carole doused a bit of gauze in alcohol and pressed it to Blaine's brow. He squeezed Blaine's hand as the other boy cringed, his own lip quivering. "D'you need anything? A glass of water? Pain relievers? Something to eat? I could whip up a chocolate mousse, I know it's your favorite -"

"I'll take some of that mousse, Hummel," Puck called out with a smirk, and Kurt shot a fiercely quelling look over his shoulder before returning his full attention to Blaine.

"Kurt, I'm _fine_," Blaine emphasized, a reassuring smile flitting into place, and Carole scolded him for moving his head too much. He stilled obediently, even as he insisted, "It's just a little scratch."

Everyone in the room made various disbelieving sounds at this, apart from Burt, who was too busy hotly demanding to speak to a supervisor to pay much attention to anything else.

Kurt quirked a sardonic eyebrow, his tears momentarily subsiding in the face of Blaine's clear delirium. "A scratch." He did not think it necessary to disclaim just how idiotic he found Blaine's statement: the inflection in his voice did all the work for him. "A _scratch_, Blaine, is what an over-energetic kitten inflicts on its handsy owner. A _scratch_ is something that happens to unobservant people who walk into bushes and low-lying tree branches. _That_," he nodded at Blaine's scarlet eyebrow, "is not a scratch. That is what we _sensible _people categorize as a _wound_."

Blaine's resultant eye roll at Kurt's theatrics had him sucking in a pained breath a moment later. His point made, Kurt easily fell back into fawning over the other boy once more.

He pushed some of Blaine's wayward curls off his forehead tenderly, tucking a few of them behind his ear. "Your poor eyebrow - it'll never look the same again …"

A dismayed sort of noise escaped the back of Blaine's throat as he lifted a hand automatically to his injured eye; Carole smacked it away pointedly, admonishing him lightly for moving around so much.

"But don't worry, hun," she added encouragingly, after shooting a dirty look at Kurt over Blaine's shoulder, "the cut's mostly superficial. It'll heal up nicely as long as you keep it clean."

"You're lucky you've got my mom around, Blaine," Finn piped up. "She's had loads of practice fixing up cuts." The Phineas and Ferb band-aid currently taking up residence across the end of Finn's chin from his earlier encounter with the front stairs' banister was proof of this fact.

"Lucky Fun-Size over here had the Puckster at his back," Puck cockily added, as he flexed his arms obnoxiously. Kurt and Blaine both turned to the boy, sporting offended frowns at the nickname. Puck waggled his eyebrows at them. "Or else Hummel'd be crying over more than the loss of his boy's eyebrow." Puck then proceeded to do what Puck did best, and began making vulgar hip thrusts into the air.

Kurt rolled his eyes and lifted his chin disdainfully, more than used to Puck being crude; Blaine stared on, his uninjured eye wide, his non-bruised cheek quickly flushing; Finn pulled a panicked face and waved his hands frantically in front of him, spluttering, "Dude! Brother! Uncool!"

"Noah," Carole chided, with a voice mixed somewhere between repulsed and affectionate, "don't be gross."

"Sorry, Mrs. H."

"I gotta say, you run a piss poor force if what you're trying to tell me - no, I'm not gonna calm down!" Burt made a pass around the kitchen table much the same way Kurt had done just moments previously, face beginning to turn purple in his anger, a vein popping out in his forehead. "… _Boys will be boys_? What're you trying to say, here? … No, I don't think _you _get it … Look, pal, my son's boyfriend just had his face smashed in by punks twice his size, and you're saying there's nothing you can - yeah, you heard me right … uh-huh … boyfriend, yeah - _and what the hell is that supposed to mean_?"

"Burt, calm down before you have another heart attack!" Carole watched on as her husband raved into the phone, her expression exasperated and slightly worried as she pulled out a roll of medical tape and some dressing for Blaine's eye. Kurt distinctly heard his stepmother mutter something along the lines of "_these men'll be the death of me_," before returning her full attention to the bleeding boy in front of her. She smiled encouragingly. "Lift your chin up a little, Blaine. There we go …"

The hand sandwiched between Kurt's clenched, then released. "I'm sorry for putting everyone through this," Blaine murmured in a soft, defeated sort of voice. He rubbed a hand across the injury-free side of his face. "This is such an unnecessary burden for all of you."

The bereft, humiliated expression the shorter boy wore was made ten times worse by his swollen injuries, and the effect had more hot tears leaking out the corners of Kurt's eyes.

It was heartbreaking and unfair, every last bit of it. Blaine sitting there, bleeding, looking figuratively and literally brow-beaten, and apologizing for something completely out of his control - Kurt had to forcefully resist the pull in his chest that was urging him to lock Blaine away, to keep him forever out of sight from all the ignorance and hate that had tainted their entire evening. People like Blaine - the kind-hearted, wonderful, good-willed sort - were few and far between, and were meant to soar, to make the world better; to remain untarnished from the darker parts of life. They weren't meant to be hurt. Not by thick-headed trolls and their meaty elbows; nor by closed-minded, hypocritical Neanderthals; and certainly not by an insecure, overdramatic boyfriend who so easily allowed a few short-sighted comments to prevent himfrom remembering that one of the key factors which had led him to falling so hard for the boy in the first place was his _loyalty_.

Kurt swallowed around another sob. Dear Prada, he had really put his foot in it this time.

But before Kurt could regain control over himself enough to emphatically deny the possibility of Blaine being a burden to him _ever_, Burt surprisingly beat him to the punch.

"I don't want to hear that coming from your mouth again, Blaine," he grunted out, face still red as he pulled the phone away from his ear long enough to give Blaine his infamous no-nonsense glare. He pointed a stern finger at him. "No apologizing. Not for this. You have _nothing _to be sorry for, got it?"

When Blaine's only response was to slump his shoulders even further, Carole put in her two cents' worth as well. "Someone as sweet as you could never be a burden to us, Blaine," she murmured, smiling reassuringly as she put the finishing touches on Blaine's bandaging. Her work done, she leaned forward and touched his non-swollen cheek gently. "You're good for Kurt, hun, which makes you good for this family. None of us want to see you get hurt."

Kurt would forever marvel at the all-powerful mothering instinct that seemed to allow Carole the uncanny ability to know exactly the right thing to say in situations like these. As it was, his stepmother's words swiftly put an end to Kurt being the only person in the room fighting back tears, as Blaine's voice was decidedly thicker and more than a little choked when he leaned perceptibly into Carole's hand, and thanked her again for all she had done.

"And you guys," Blaine added, his voice slightly more composed as he turned to glance over at Finn and Puck, who were still in their previous positions of leaning comfortably against the kitchen counter. "You gave up your basketball game to help me out, and you don't even know me that well."

Finn grinned and shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck bashfully as he said, "No problem, dude."

"I'll take any excuse I can get to mess up Karofsky and Azimio," Puck explained simply, rubbing his sore knuckles almost fondly. He frowned as he added, "It sucks Berry's gonna go all _Exorcist _when she next sees us, though. It's straight up creepy whenever she starts yelling in tongues."

Blaine tried to apologize again, but Puck interrupted him with an impatient eye-roll. "Dude, seriously. You're Hummel's boy, right?"

A blush rose up Blaine's neck at Puck's words, a ghost of a smile making a brief appearance as he carefully nodded his head. "Yeah, I am."

Kurt's heart thudded so loudly against his ribcage at this, he was almost shocked when no one called him out on it.

"Well, Hummel's _my _boy. Not, you know, in a Philip Morris kind of way or anything - I mean, he's cute and all, I guess, if you're into high-maintenance dudes with a thing for buckles -" Kurt would have been highly offended, if this were not completely true - "but still. Hummel's my boy, _you're _Hummel's boy, which makes you my boy by association. It's like math and junk." An adequate description, coming from the guy who had still believed in girl cooties last time he actually _attended _a math class. "And no one messes with the Puckster's boys. You follow me?"

Kurt was fairly certain the only people who could follow Noah Puckerman's unique brand of logic were either the clinically insane or the outrageously inebriated, but Blaine nodded his understanding all the same.

Puck returned the nod. "Good. Now, if no one else is in need of my services tonight," he straightened away from the counter, brandishing his phone as he did so, "Lauren's just texted to tell me the team was clobbered without me and the Finnster there."

"Oh, that's too bad," Carole sent her son and his friend a sympathetic glance. "And you were so close making it to Regionals. You boys must be disappointed."

"Are you kidding?" Surprisingly, Puck sounded closer to ecstatic about the news. "This is awesome!" He waved the phone around in front of him for emphasis. "Apparently Lauren feels sorry enough about our pathetic defeat, that she's gonna let me get to second base tonight." He flashed an exultant grin and punched the air. "The Puckasaurus is finally getting some!"

Kurt thought this a disgusting turn of events, as he was of the belief Lauren Zizes could do _so _much better than the guy with second-degree burn scars on his rear from that one time in fifth grade when he tried to light one of his farts on fire.

"I'll take you back to your car," Finn offered, pushing himself away from the counter and grabbing for the keys next to him. "Be back later, Mom." He smiled over in the direction of the table and lifted a hand in farewell. "Take it easy, Blaine."

Puck clapped Blaine on the shoulder as he and Finn walked past, shooting Kurt a smirk and Carole a wink. "Later, Hummels."

"Treat her like a lady, Noah!" Carole called after the delinquent's back. She shook her head fondly once the front door had opened and closed. "That boy knows how to get a girl attached, doesn't he?"

"Usually with an abundance of alcoholic beverages and impregnat - ouch, Carole! _Not the hair!_"

Kurt could concede the fact he probably deserved it when Carole smacked him upside the head for his comment, but that didn't prevent him from taking immediate offense. Traumatic experiences or no, Kurt still had appearances to keep up, and his stepmother's hand was sure to have done some form of damage to his carefully crafted coif.

It was worth the ruined hair, though, when Blaine started chuckling appreciatively at the look of outrage on his face.

"You're so adorable when you're sassy," he murmured, grinning indulgently, his expression coming off slightly lopsided due to the white bandage covering most of his left eye. He reached up and began fixing Kurt's hair for him.

And, okay, _that _had no business feeling as good as it did, Kurt thought to himself, suppressing an embarrassing urge to purr as Blaine's fingers carded softly through his hair. Obviously the knock to Blaine's head had affected him if the other boy was blatantly disregarding their no touching of the hair rules - and the glint in Blaine's eye told Kurt his boyfriend knew perfectly well just how rebellious he was being - but Kurt was really having a difficult time finding it within himself to care at the moment. The night had been bad (and not Louis-Vuitton-knock-off bad, either, more like Couture-set-on-fire bad), Blaine's ministrations were soothing Kurt's frazzled nerves, and seeing as half an hour ago Kurt had been unsure whether Blaine would even be fully mobile, let alone _want _to touch him after what a prissed-up buffoon Kurt had been … well, Kurt was not about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

It was much quieter in the kitchen now, with Finn and Puck gone, and Burt having stomped off to a different part of the house where he could shout vulgarities into the phone without the threat of Carole catching him at it. Kurt and Blaine continued to sit at the table, watching in silence as Carole puttered around them, disposing of the bloody towels, replacing the first-aid kit to its home above the microwave, and opening the refrigerator in a half-hearted attempt to find a suitable distraction from the reason why she had spent the past ten minutes tending to her stepson's bleeding boyfriend.

"You think I'd get used to seeing an empty fridge after being Finn's mom for sixteen years," Carole sighed as she scrutinized the refrigerator's contents sadly. "Don't suppose you boys are in the mood for pancakes?" she asked blithely, looking over her shoulder at them questioningly. "Because it's either that or mustard."

Blaine opened his mouth to say something, and Carole immediately tutted. "Blaine, hun, if you try to say one more time how you don't want me to go to any trouble, I will force feed you every last scrap of food my bottomless pit of a son has left in this house, including the half-eaten sandwiches currently building a colony underneath his bed."

"I'd listen to her if I were you," Kurt warned, when Blaine sent him a perplexed sort of look. "Last I heard the sandwiches were preparing to do battle with Finn's rancid gym sock collection."

Blaine graciously accepted the offer for pancakes.

A large frying pan was sitting on the stove top, Carole's homemade pancake batter sizzling within its depths, when Burt finally rejoined them in the kitchen. Upon seeing the expression on his father's alarmingly magenta-colored face, Kurt's teenaged instincts instantly kicked in, and he was hunkered down into his seat with his head bowed before he could remember that, this time at least, he was not the cause of Burt Hummel's ire.

Burt looked absolutely _livid_. His eyes were wide and buggy, veins were popped and bulging in his forehead and neck, and he was clutching the cordless phone in his right hand so tightly Kurt swore he heard the plastic backing start to crack. Burt's breathing was irregular and heaving, whooshing in and out of his nostrils rapidly, and when Carole placed a tentative hand on his arm, it took him a moment to focus his eyes on her.

"Remind me to vote _no_ on the next Lima City Police Department levy," he finally ground out between clenched teeth. His shoulders were nearly pulled up to his ears, he was so tensed. "Because I'll be damned if I have to pay for an increase to those yahoos' Christmas bonuses."

Carole frowned. "There's nothing they can do?"

"Nothing they're _willing _to do," Burt corrected with a snarl, and Kurt, Blaine and Carole watched as he flung the phone in his hand onto the kitchen island with a look of disgust, before collapsing into the chair next to Kurt with a grunt. He clapped a hand onto Kurt's shoulder almost reflexively, the other one reaching for the ever present ball cap on his head, pulling it off and rubbing wearily at the back of his neck as he looked from his wife, to his son, and finally landing on his son's boyfriend.

"You all right?" he asked Blaine, his voice gruff, his eyes still hard as they took in the bandage plastered to the left side of Blaine's face. The corners of Burt's mouth were pulled into a tight frown. "Do we need to get you to the emergency room?"

Blaine immediately shook his head, affecting the most winning smile he could muster - which was a sad attempt, actually, considering any movement above the neck caused his jaw to tighten with pain. "I'm fine, sir," he assured Burt, even as his voice wobbled as he spoke. "Just - just a bit of a headache, that's all."

Burt grunted again, his eyes sliding over to Carole, silently asking her the same question.

"No signs of a concussion yet that I can see," she offered, "though he won't be out of the woods for a few hours still."

Burt nodded absently, hand still scrubbing at the back of his head. He seemed to be calming down somewhat, Kurt was relieved to see. His breathing was slowly returning to normal, and while the veins in his neck were still standing out angrily, at least the color had more or less drained from his face, leaving him looking less plum, and more strawberry.

His voice was as gruff as ever, though, when he growled out, "Well, those yokels downtown sitting their asses in chairs _my _tax dollars paid for have decided there's nothing much they can do about a 'boyhood scuffle.'" Kurt had never actually seen his father use air quotes before now, and had to say the look did not suit him at all. Burt snorted harshly. "Don't know why I bothered with them in the first place, when I have half a mind to drive over to the Karofskys' place and tell Paul for myself about that pathetic accuse of a son he's raised -"

"Burt, don't you dare." Carole's look sharpened acutely as she glared a hole into the back of her husband's head. "That'll do nothing to help the situation, and the last thing we need is for you to land yourself in the hospital because you lost a hold of your temper …"

"Carole, it ain't right!" Burt burst out, so unexpectedly and loud that both Kurt and Blaine jumped in their seats. He twisted around in his chair and stared up at his wife. "Did you get a look at the kid's face?" He gestured behind him to Blaine's eye. "Are you telling me I'm supposed to lay down and do nothing, when Blaine comes back from a date with _my son _looking like _that_?"

Kurt watched, feeling shamed and sick, as Carole glanced in his and Blaine's direction, put a hand over her mouth, and sobbed.

"It ain't right," Burt repeated, a crack appearing in his gruff exterior as his voice gave just the slightest of hitches on the last syllable. He shook his head, his glare turning almost bewildered now. "They're just kids. You're _kids_," he repeated, turning to face Kurt and Blaine once more. "You shouldn't have to deal with this _hate_. Not at your age. Not ever."

He took a breath to stare between the two boys sitting across from him, before firing up once more. "And the authorities won't do a damned thing, 'cause this time the gay kid walked away with just a cut, and those punks that did this won't even get so much as a slap on the wrist, and'll go on thinking they can get away with it!"

In a burst of frustration, Burt thumped a fist against the table, hard, making the entire wooden surface shake. He seemed to regret the action when he saw both Kurt and Blaine wince at the loud noise, because he sighed, tipped his cap once more onto his head, and leaned back in his chair, looking both angry and defeated.

Kurt couldn't watch his father in this position for long. Instead his eyes fell to his hands, the same hands still clutching one of Blaine's, biting his lip as he felt his eyes begin to sting. It still killed him, every time he witnessed his father being affected by his son's sexuality. Burt Hummel was a strong man; the sort of fellow who would stroll into an emergency room with a beer in one hand and a bag containing his severed thumb in the other. The man had lived through the death of his parents, and the loss of a beloved wife, with a stiffened spine and a determined gait. He had scraped through an economy in the pits, and weathered a heart attack, without so much as batting an eye. He had raised his son - a son who was different from all the other little boys in town - on his own, with a grin on his face for the majority of the time, and had loved him no matter how he turned out.

But for Kurt to sit there, and watch as his father warred with his frustrations and hopelessness against a society that would martyr itself before ever truly allowing acceptance for his only child …

Kurt was a proud individual, and did not hide who he was. He had struggled too hard with himself to go back on it now. He was independent, fabulous, and loud about the fact. He was himself through and through. But having to see his father - the man who had been there through all the times Kurt was sure his world was ending - struggle and fight against notions and ideals _Kurt _had forced him to confront … well.

Sometimes Kurt _did _wish it were a choice.

"I'm sorry." The words were whispered so softly, and filled to the brim with the exact same emotions swimming through his own head, that at first Kurt thought it was his conscience giving voice to its own guilt. But the hand clutched between his shifted, pulled itself away, and abruptly Kurt understood it was Blaine who had spoken, _Blaine _who had sounded so guilty, so crushed.

"It's my fault," Blaine continued, his tone subdued, and disheartened. He rubbed his hands against his face, jerking away with a pained hiss as he remembered too late about his injuries; Kurt watched the motion with a painful twist in his stomach, his guilt hitting him like a physical blow. How could Blaine think any of this was his fault, when clearly … _clearly _Kurt was to blame?

"It's my fault this happened," Blaine reiterated, his voice thickening once again with what Kurt assumed to be suppressed tears. He pressed the heel of one hand to his good eye. "They would've left me alone if I'd just ignored -"

"No, Blaine." Kurt pulled his eyes away from his quickly unraveling boyfriend in time to see his father sit upright in his seat, resting his hands square on the tabletop in front of him as he stared directly at Blaine. Burt shook his head slowly as he repeated, "_No_."

Burt could have meant many things by that one simple word. No, it was not Blaine's fault. No, they would not have left him alone if he had simply ignored them. No, he still would have come back to the Hummel-Hudson house with a bloodied eye and a swollen cheek, even if he had acted differently in the situation presented to him a hundred times over.

No, it was not fair. No, it never would be.

Whatever it was Burt had meant, Blaine seemed to get the meaning, for he did not argue against the simple declaration. Instead he pulled his hand away from his red but otherwise dry eye, blew out a shaky breath, and nodded.

Kurt did not fare nearly so well, especially when he felt Blaine slip his hand back in between his. His gnawing guilt was still very much present, a sensation he suspected would remain for as long as it took Blaine's eyebrow to heal, and Kurt really did not know which would help stifle the feeling more: curling in the fetal position and sobbing, or pulling Blaine away into another room to commence groveling for his forgiveness.

Burt stared at their clasped hands for a moment, an indecipherable expression crossing over his features. When he next spoke, there was still an angry edge to his tone, but something else, as well. Something fierce, and strong; something wholly determined.

"You've nothing to be sorry for, all right? _Either of you_." Burt's gaze locked momentarily with Kurt's, and Kurt had the nagging suspicion his father knew perfectly well the inner turmoil his son was currently battling. Burt Hummel may act obtuse when it came to the more "flowery" emotions, but he sure as hell seemed freakishly in-tune to the grittier, less pleasant ones.

"In fact, I'm the one who's sorry. Wait, no, hear me out -" Burt held up a hand, halting the various assertions to the contrary Kurt and Blaine had both begun to vehemently utter. "I'm sorry you boys have to go through this, that you're forced to see the world at its ugliest at such young ages. But you know - you _gotta _know - that you've done nothing to deserve this, right?" He glanced between the two of them. "_Nothing_."

For a moment, there was absolute stillness within the little kitchen as everyone took a moment to let Burt's impassioned avowal sink in. Barely a sound was heard, apart from Burt's more labored than usual breathing, a conspicuous sniffle here or there from either Kurt or Blaine -

- and a soft, odd sort of sizzling noise emanating from behind them.

"Oh damn, the pancakes!" Carole, who had placed herself behind the two boys seated at the table sometime during Burt's speech, a hand gripping each of their shoulders as she fought to keep the tears in her eyes from spilling over, hurried over to the stove, where the forgotten evening meal lay burning and crisping in neglect, smoke beginning to billow from the makeshift griddle.

The destruction of flapjacks seemed enough of a distraction to lift the tension from the occupants of the kitchen table, for after another quick glance between the two boys in front of him, Burt lifted himself out of his seat with a somewhat embarrassed cough, and clapped Kurt on the shoulder once more.

"Well, there's not much more we can do about this tonight," he said, eyes lingering on Blaine's swelling as he spoke. The expression on Burt's face gave Kurt the distinct impression his father was still contemplating a possible visit to the Karofskys, perhaps even wondering whether there was a way he could slip past his wife without her noticing. "I'll be giving Figgins a call first thing in the morning, but until then I want you boys to get a good night's rest in you. Especially you, Blaine." Burt's look was pointed and full of an air that was distinctly no-nonsense. "You've had a rough night, so why don't you give your parents a call and we'll see about getting you home, all right?"

Blaine blinked up at Burt, his grip on Kurt's hand tightening minutely. "My parents?"

"Yeah." Burt was moving away from them, talking over his shoulder as he made his way over to Carole, offering to help her clean up in a bid to get back on his wife's good side. "Figure I should explain to them what happened tonight, so's they won't flip out when I send you home looking like that."

Burt and Carole, with their backs turned to the table, failed to see the look that passed across Blaine's face at the mention of him going home.

Kurt, however, did not.

"If it's okay with you, Mr. Hummel, I'd rather just head back to Dalton." Kurt was not for a second fooled as Blaine effected a nonchalant tone, a superficial grin falling easily into place; the perfect showman's facade. He chuckled, and the forced sound slid unpleasantly down Kurt's spine. "My parents are early risers, they're probably already in bed -"

"I think they'll be more than fine with you waking them up this one time," Carole asserted as she hunched over the kitchen sink, scraping fiercely at the blackened sludge that did not even remotely resemble a pancake from the skillet in her hands. "You're their son, they'll want to know if something's happened to you."

"Plus you've got yourself a hell of a head injury, there, Blaine," Burt added as he wiped up a spattering of batter from the stovetop. "An injury you got while on a date with Kurt. Whether you believe it or not, I'm responsible for you while you're in Lima, kid, and I'm not sending you back to school knowing there won't be anyone to check up on you through the night."

"I'll let one of my friends know when I get back," Blaine was quick to suggest, his words rushing from him as his smile slipped perceptibly. Kurt watched closely as his parents both paused in their endeavors, their eyes meeting briefly before slowly turning to face Blaine. Blaine smiled at them. "Wes never goes to sleep on the weekends, and I'm sure he'll be more than willing to check in every couple -"

"Blaine," Burt interrupted the boy, his tone slow and deliberate, his expression carefully measured. Kurt could practically hear the cogs working overtime in his dad's brain. He leveled Blaine with an even stare. "Call your parents, bud."

The request was quiet, and lacking Burt's usual gruffness, but Kurt could recognize a command when he heard one.

And so, apparently, could Blaine.

Burt and Carole had both crossed their arms by now, perfecting their stern-yet-concerned parental stances as they watched Blaine send one last imploring glance in Kurt's direction, before reluctantly untangling their fingers and fumbling in a pocket for his phone.

"Mom?" Blaine's voice was hesitant and diminutive as he spoke into the stillness around him, his phone pressed up to his ear. Kurt noticed his throat work silently. "Mom, it's Blaine. I - oh … ah, no, I had no idea you were out … Dad's work party? That - that's great, Mom, but I need to … hmm? … yeah, no, school's fine, it's just …" Blaine's mother said something, and Kurt thought he detected a tightness begin working its way up his boyfriend's neck and into his jaw. Blaine's eyes skittered over in his direction for the barest of seconds. "I understand you're busy right now, Mom, but I'm trying to tell you …" Blaine swallowed again. "… Yeah, well, something happened tonight, and Kurt's dad was wondering if - Kurt. Kurt Hummel? … I've talked about him before, Mom!" Blaine pushed a frustrated hand through his hair and turned in his seat, blocking Kurt, Burt and Carole from seeing his face as he continued the conversation with his mother.

"Yes, the boy I sang a duet with … _yes_, I told you already that he's - no … _no_, Mom, it's not like that… I don't understand how I could give you the wrong impression with Casey, but Kurt's my … Mom - Mom, I didn't call to argue about this!" Blaine's unexpected shout bounced off the walls of the kitchen, and the injured boy winced at the volume of his own voice before shooting Burt and Carole an apologetic look. "Look, Mom, the reason I called is I hit my head tonight, and Mr. Hummel thinks it'd be a good idea if I went home instead of going back to Dalton, in case I have a concus -"

Blaine stopped speaking abruptly, and the other three occupants of the room all knew, without having to hear Mrs. Anderson's words, exactly what it was Blaine's mother was telling him.

Because Blaine's misting eyes and dejected look spoke loudly enough on their own.

Kurt was not a delusional person. He knew perfectly well about his tendency to be abrasive, and stubborn, and just how willing he was to show his stubbornness to the world. He was independent, impulsive, and had grown up an only child with a generous father. Therefore, it was safe to assume Kurt had never been used to denying himself the things he wanted most dearly in life.

Which was why it was a bona fide miracle when Kurt managed to restrain himself from snatching the cell phone from his boyfriend's hand and begin screaming down the mouthpiece.

Idealistically, Kurt would have himself believe the reason he did not give into the temptation to hurl biting insults at the woman who was making his boyfriend cry was because he was a maturing young man who was slowly blossoming into a level-headed adult. That being with Blaine, and witnessing as the other boy endured physical pain at the hands of Kurt's old tormentors, was leading him on the path to becoming a better person, to giving way to petty teenage emotions and learning there were things more important in life besides calling Mrs. Anderson a heartless old cow.

Idealistically, this is what Kurt would have had himself believe. Realistically, he knew damn well the only reason he had not grabbed Blaine's phone out of the other boy's hand was because Burt beat him to it.

"Mrs. Anderson?" Kurt's father bit out into the phone, shooting a _look _down at Blaine when the boy opened his mouth in protest. Lucky for Blaine he was an intelligent individual who understood the concept of futility, for he wisely stayed quiet, his shoulders slumping in silent defeat. "Burt Hummel, here. Kurt's dad."

As Burt listened to the other end of the line, Carole came up behind Blaine and placed her hands on his shoulders, squeezing in silent comfort. Blaine smiled feebly up at her, his sad eyes still swimming, and Kurt scooped up the boy's hands with his own, silently chiding himself for ever letting go in the first place, and vowing never to do such a ridiculous thing again.

"Now, I don't know much about fancy parties and impressing clients, Mrs. Anderson, but I'm being straight with you here when I say Blaine was hurt pretty bad tonight, and I think it'd be best if you and your husband had him come home - uh-huh … uh-huh … no, I understand what you're saying - yeah, Blaine's a smart kid, I don't doubt he knows how to take care of himself, but what I'm telling you now is he needs his mom and dad to … Mrs. Anderson, your son was roughed up by a couple of kids at my stepson's basketball game tonight, and while my wife cleaned him up as good as she can, the two of us are not gonna fall asleep unless we know there's someone looking after him -"

Kurt could hear Mrs. Anderson's voice murmuring through the phone, and saw the way Burt's countenance slowly hardened with every word the woman said. The look on his father's face plainly stated that, unless Mrs. Anderson changed her tune soon, the conversation was not going to end on a cheerful note. Color was flushing up Burt's neck, the veins in his forehead performing an encore appearance, and the line of his mouth had all but disappeared by this point. When he next spoke, his voice was calm, detached, the complete opposite from when he had been bellowing profanities at the secretary of the local police department.

And yet, somehow, Kurt was certain he had never heard his dad sound so infuriatingly angry, nor look quite so enraged, ever before in his life.

"So that's all you've got to say about your son getting attacked -" Blaine visibly flinched at the word, and Carole tightened her grip on his shoulders - "that he's a big boy who's gotta learn to fight his own battles, huh? … No, Mrs. Anderson, that's where you're wrong, because I'm pretty damn positive I'm one of the few parents in this ass-backwards state that understands the situation better than you yourself do … damn right I'm judging you! … look, all I know is you've got one hell of a kid here, Mrs. Anderson, a kid who needs some comfort and reassurance from his mom, and you're sitting there telling me your husband's clients are more important than Blaine's happiness … yeah … well, whatever helps you sleep at night -"

Burt made a dramatic show of hanging up on Blaine's mother - or, at least he would have, had Kurt's father actually known how to use a touch-screen. The sentiment was still there, though, when Burt fumbled with the phone for a few seconds, cursed expressively, and finally dropped the device onto the kitchen table, his teeth gritted, his breath coming out in short, angry bursts.

"Burt?" Carole ventured, after her husband stood there a full five minutes in enraged silence, doing nothing but breathing heavily and glaring intensely at Blaine's phone.

It took a few more minutes, but finally Burt responded to his wife's query, his voice hard, his eyes still pinned on the cell phone as he grunted out, "Blaine's staying here tonight."

It was not a suggestion. It was not up for debate. Burt was not taking anyone else's input on the matter, and was not about to elaborate. In fact, he didn't say anything else at all as he exited the kitchen, pausing only once, to allow himself a moment to close his eyes and collect himself, and to pat a sturdy, encouraging hand against Blaine's hunched-over back.

As he watched his father's retreating form disappear through a door leading to the attached garage, his gray and green flannel shirt flashing in stark fluorescent lighting before the door snapped closed behind him, Kurt could not help but think he had never appreciated his father more than he did in that moment, and that he was supremely lucky to have him.

He was lucky to have Carole, too, who tacitly decided to leave the two boys alone, after murmuring something about extra blankets and scrounging up clean pillowcases. She offered a hug and a kiss on the cheek to each boy, and Kurt and Blaine watched her go, neither one of them commenting as Carole wiped surreptitiously at her eyes with the sleeve of her shirt as she disappeared down the front hall.

"Well," Blaine murmured, after the sound of a door closing issued from somewhere upstairs. His voice sounded stuffy and scratched, and if Kurt didn't know any better he would worry over the potential of a head cold. Blaine glanced over at Kurt and smiled, his expression tired, his bruised cheek painful-looking. The eye Kurt could see was still warm, though, still held that sparkle of good humor even a date night worthy of the New Directions could never dispel.

He squeezed Kurt's hands, and even managed a wink. "Not one of our better nights, hmm?"

And somehow, inexplicably, Kurt knew everything was going to be okay. True, things were far from resolved. True, there was still guilt and regret settled heavily in Kurt's stomach, and the two boys had a day full of talking to look forward to tomorrow; of discussing the Casey thing and the jealousy thing and the negligent parents thing. True, they were currently sitting at Kurt's kitchen table, one of them bleeding and both of them crying, after enduring a horrifically awful evening; an evening that involved accusations of cheating, physical violence, lycra abuse, a debt owed to Noah Puckerman of all people, and a discovery that the puzzle that was Warbler Blaine contained many more pieces than was previously believed … but still. It was nothing a good heart-to-heart and Tracy-Hepburn marathon couldn't handle.

Things could have turned out far worse, Kurt reminded himself, as he held out his arms and Blaine gratefully fell into them, nuzzling into his shoulder and sighing wearily as the tension he had been holding slowly lifted. Kurt's heart contracted at the motion, and he bit back a smile as he buried one of his hands into the curls at the nape of Blaine's neck, silently marveling at the soft texture, and making a mental note to think up a convincing excuse to nix the whole no-hands-above-the-neck rule once he and Blaine had sorted everything else out.

For a while, everything was still and silent. Then Blaine shifted slightly in his arms, lifting his head and peering at something over Kurt's shoulder. "Hey, Kurt?"

"Hmm?" Kurt closed his eyes, and pulled Blaine even closer, not quite ready to give up the moment.

He could feel it as Blaine plucked at something on his back.

"… Why do you have ketchup all over your shirt?"

Kurt's eyes snapped open.

Things just got worse.

* * *

><p><strong>AN2: <strong>So this ended up being one of those "chapters that became so ridiculously long I had to split it in half" deals again. Still working on the next part - I wouldn't be me if I wasn't! - but I can promise more delving into the Andersons, a tad more hysterical Kurt, and a lovely side order or Warbler boys.

My head's still reeling over the amount of reviews my last chapter received. Don't think I could take much more of it (and I'm totally lying, by the way - I _live _for your reviews.)

Till next time!


	9. Chapter Nine: Who Needs Words

**AN**: For the love of all that is chocolatey and delicious, this was an absolute _beast _of a chapter to get out. I don't know how many days I spent editing and re-editing, cutting and pasting and moving and rearranging, and ... gah, this is why I don't do scrapbooking. I don't have the _patience _for scrapbooking.

I'm sorry it took so long, I'm a perfectionist who won't post anything unless I'm totally comfortable with it. Please know that I'm trying my hardest to get these chapters out as soon as I possibly am able, and that I look to your guys' many wonderful reviews for added motivation.

And speaking of reviews … can I just say how much I adore them? Because I do. Every single one of them. There's my lovely regular reviewers - you know who you are - whose words I can count on to render me a squealing pile of gooey gratitude after every chapter. I've got my random reviewers, who pop in and out every few chapters to let me know what they think (and yes, before you ask, you leave me gooey and gratitude-y as well), and then the ever fabulous anonymous reviewers who, apart from making me giggle at your ever-creative monikers, leave me thrumming with - yes, you guessed it - gratitude of the gooey variety.

So essentially I have regulars, randoms, anons, and multiple mentions of "gooey."

… Huh. Sounded much less hooker-ish in my head.

**Disclaimer**: Kurt and Blaine are not mine. They would make a marvelous Christmas gift, though. (Not that I'm endorsing kidnapping of fictional characters who just so happen to be portrayed by highly attractive real-life people, because I'm not! And I would most assuredly alert the authorities if aforementioned actors somehow wound up postmarked to my address … eventually. … Probably. … Maybe?) 

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Nine: Who Needs Words<strong>

"… _If ya want my body _…"

"Mmrrrmmph." Kurt groaned inarticulately into his pillow as he was pulled rather unceremoniously from the glorious abyss that was sleep. The last dregs of a lovely dream involving a lockdown in a mall with an unlimited credit limit, his doting if also shirtless boyfriend, and a swimming pool filled entirely with tiramisu clung to the edges of Kurt's brain, beckoning his subconscious into the tempting depths that was dreamland with the promise of a _very _happy ending should he return.

"… _and ya think I'm sexy _…"

But alas, such bliss was not meant to be. The space between Kurt's ears was fuzzy and muted as he shifted beneath his blanket, his brow scrunching in a fruitless effort to ward off the disgustingly cheerful sunlight streaming across his face from a nearby window. The beams of yellow light were slanted at an odd angle, hitting the room differently than normal, warming the chill air. The light twinkled merrily against every shiny surface, glinting and winking as it bounced its bright rays across the walls, _mocking _him. Kurt peeked an eye open and glared at the offending window, whose flannel curtains fluttered unconcernedly in the slight breeze made by the warm air streaming through a floor vent as the heating kicked into life.

"… _come on, sugar, let me know _…"

It took Kurt's sleep-muddled mind longer than usual to cotton on to the fact he was staring contemptuously at an inanimate object as though it were purposely out to ruin his morning, and even longer to realize that, seeing as Kurt would have himself committed before ever allowing _flannel curtains _to hang in his room, he must have fallen asleep somewhere other than his bedroom last night.

"… _if ya really need me _…"

Kurt shifted again, turned on his side, and a horrendously painful crick in his neck gave strong evidence to the idea that he had used a couch as a makeshift sleeping space. A second opened eye and a quick scan of the surrounding room confirmed his suspicions. For reasons currently unremembered by his sluggish mind, Kurt had opted to forgo slumbering on his bed with its thousand thread-count sheets and goose-down duvet, and instead camped out on the living room sofa that was five years older than him, and two inches shorter.

"… _just reach out and touch me _…"

Apparently those two inches made all the difference, because a throbbing pain shot through both of Kurt's knees and down into his shins as he gingerly stretched out his legs, the stiff joints creaking and popping with the littlest of movement. The sensation made him cringe with discomfort as he settled onto his back, his legs slowly, painstakingly extended without any future plans of changing that fact.

In an attempt to ease the ache residing just above his tailbone, Kurt shifted his shoulders around, his forehead wrinkling into a frown as he felt coarse fabric brush against his arms and neck. The quilt Kurt had thrown over him - a tenth birthday present from an aunt he had met all of three times - was what polite company always referred to as "eccentric", but which in actuality meant Kurt had himself a half-blind, fully loonified Aunt Susan. A _Great _Aunt Susan who, judging from the pink and orange fabric contained within the threadbare blanket (and enough glitter-yarn to make _My Little Pony _seem masculine), had either been a miraculously insightful eighty-seven year old, or had been under the false impression her only nephew, Burt, had been raising a daughter.

It was absolutely hideous, vaguely insulting, and clashed with every color scheme in the house. Kurt would have happily seen this particular throw lit on fire (he could appreciate the irony), and while he couldn't be sure, he had the sneaking suspicion the only reason Great Aunt Susan's quilt had survived six spring cleanings and a moving day was due in large part to his father's subconscious fear of the woman who had once locked a seven-year-old Burt in an airing cupboard after he accidentally trod over a prized begonia plant.

Trying to keep his mind off the travesty of a quilt wrapped around him, not to mention the unpleasant tingling spreading rapidly through his legs as the feeling slowly came back to them, Kurt focused his eyes blearily on the ceiling above him, blinking lethargically as he let out a long, lazy sigh.

Life always seemed its simplest during the warm-up period between sleep and wakefulness; when fantasy blurred with reality, and real life issues were momentarily forgotten in a haze of half-remembered images and groggy warmth. With his eyes heavy-lidded, Kurt scratched at his stomach absently as the blood slowly re-circulated into his legs, sighing to himself as the fog lifted from his thoughts. Sounds were sharpening, colors were brightening, and Kurt's nose gave a half-interested sniff as it detected the unmistakable aroma of cinnamon and maple wafting from down the hall.

His mind was slowly yet surely becoming less fuzzy, and Kurt was soon coherent enough to take note of three key details. One, there was drool smeared all across his cheek; two, his tongue felt like he had spent the majority of the night licking various furry creatures; and three, judging by the slanting of the sunlight and the unmistakable melancholic call of a nearby mourning dove, it was early. Like (a quick glance at the digital read-out on the stereo system to confirm his suspicions), seven o'clock in the morning early. On a Saturday.

A _Saturday_.

Kurt blinked groggily at the stereo, his mind slow on the uptake. When it finally clicked for him that seven was in fact obscenely earlier than his usual ten o'clock weekend wake-up call, he screwed his eyes up and made an appalled sort of noise in the back of his throat. Seven on a Saturday morning? _What fresh, flannel-infested hell is this_?

Now, seven o'clock in the morning would perhaps not be considered too early for regular morning-goers, but for the boy who woke up before the sun on a daily basis to ensure the proper primping time before his school commute? Anything before nine during the weekend was torture of the cruel and unusual variety.

And _ugh_, that sun! Had it always been so sickeningly bright? This was Ohio, for Gucci's sake! Kurt slanted a second dark look at the window. It totally figured that the _one _day in April where the weather forecast did not actually include the terms _cloud _and _cover_ would happen to coincide with Kurt being awoken so inconsiderately early.

And it was early. So, _so _early.

Kurt threw an arm across his eyes and whimpered. _Why_?

"… _come on honey, tell me so _…"

Ah. That's why.

Kurt retracted his arm from his eyes and scowled at the ceiling. Someone was singing - a half-decent attempt at Rod Stewart, from the sounds of it - and unless Kurt's ears were deceiving him (a slight chance of this, seeing as half of him was trying valiantly to fall back asleep, with little success), the perpetrator was in the kitchen.

In the kitchen. Singing. At seven o'clock in the morning. On a Saturday.

Oh, they would _pay_.

There simply was nothing like the promise of painful and morbidly creative revenge to boost someone's energy levels in the morning. Visions of purple hair-dye and peacock feathers glued to unsuspecting body parts sprang into Kurt's mind as he immediately began to plot the singer's imminent demise, and although it took him a few heaves and a grumbled expletive or two, eventually Kurt had himself standing somewhat vertically, and - _holy Hermes handbags_, Kurt _really _needed to reopen living room décor negotiations with Burt, because that couch simply _had _to go. His back was stiff and creaky from spending the night on such an uncomfortable piece of furniture, he was almost positive he had a puncture wound on his shoulder from a rogue spring, and Kurt was finding it increasingly difficult to stifle the hollered protestations and undignified whimpers trying to escape him with just the barest of movement.

The pain was excruciating, but luckily for Kurt, he had always been exceedingly limber, not to mention a natural at back bridges. Sparing a second or two to grit his teeth and brace himself, Kurt executed a few neck rolls and an ungainly pelvic thrust, letting out a relieved sigh when his vertebrae shifted back into place. He took a moment to stretch his arms above his head, groaning in deep satisfaction as various pops and cracks peppered up and down his spine. Then, with a quick swipe to the drool still lingering on his cheek (also a silent reminder to double up on exfoliates that evening, because _ew_), and a calculated, _your-days-are-numbered _sort of look directed toward the couch, Kurt shuffled his way out of the living room.

It was fortunate there were no mirrors on Kurt's side of the hallway, as he was in a foul enough mood as it was, without the added stress of seeing himself in all his pre-vanity bench glory. His sleep clothes were rumpled, his hair tousled, his eyes bagged and blurry, and the look he wore was grim and determined. A dark glint within his sleep clouded eyes clearly foretold of Kurt's intent to dismember whichever inconsiderate crooner it was belting it out and waking up poor unsuspecting citizens _three hours earlier _than planned.

Of course, Kurt's diabolical plans for sweet retribution were not in any way, shape or form compatible with an abrupt submergence into Hormone Land.

"I hope whoever it is that's tickling their vocal chords at the crack of dawn is a fan of soup," Kurt snarled to himself as he charged into the kitchen, fists clenched and scowl fixed firmly in place. "Because sucking down liquids through a straw will be a _necessity of survival _after I'm through with -"

Kurt left the sentence hanging as he found himself staggering to a halt just inside the kitchen entryway, a foot suspended mindlessly in front of him, his mouth slowly dropping open as his brain absorbed the setting he had just walked into.

Barging in on Noah Puckerman waltzing Carole across the linoleum floor would have been a less surprising scene (seeing as that had, in fact, happened to Kurt once before) because there, in all his ungelled glory, stood Blaine, the very reason Kurt had camped out in the living room the night before. He was currently turned away from Kurt, fiddling with something next to the stove, wearing borrowed pajamas and tapping a socked foot against the floor as he followed along to the music streaming through the kitchen radio, belting out an impressive rendition of _Do Ya Think I'm Sexy _to an invisible audience.

Now, Kurt knew he was a smart individual_. _His wit was quick, his tongue sharp, and he managed to pull off grades solid enough to keep Burt from ransoming any of his shoes. Truth be told, Kurt had always considered himself a rather intelligent, highly evolved, vastly superior being compared to the regular head-scratching, Lima-dwelling ingrates he was normally forced to associate with. As a consequence of this particular mind set, he had never fully understood or appreciated the term _struck dumb._

That is, until now_. _

Blaine, with his back turned to Kurt as he stood vigil next to the stove, was beginning to dance in place as he sang, and Kurt suddenly found himself empathizing on a whole other level with Finn's daily simple-minded struggles. Faced with the sight of his boyfriend singing _that song_ while wearing _Kurt's clothes _as he did _that wiggle _with _those hips_, Kurt felt all thought processes in his brain come to a crashing halt, leaving him with the ability to do nothing more than dimly remind himself to write a thank-you letter to Rod Stewart's people, and hope his jaw hadn't unhinged itself too terribly during its swift journey to the floor.

Because it was official: Blaine Anderson _worked _the pajama look.

Especially when that look included very _loose_, very _low-riding _bottoms. So loose, in fact, they slid half an inch as Blaine, who still had his back turned to Kurt and had yet to notice his entrance, reached for something in the cupboard above him.

_Oh, sweet Dior_, Kurt thought numbly to himself, his furry mouth going even drier as he eyed the strip of tanned back that made the briefest of appearances as the T-shirt Blaine was wearing rode up with his movements. The unintentional show of skin was doing horrible things to Kurt's usually well-functioning brain - Kurt could practically _feel _his IQ points being pulverized by the second - and had him feverishly thanking the gods of carpentry for making the top shelves in cupboards so exasperatingly high.

As though to reward Kurt for his prayers, whatever it was that Blaine had been reaching for toppled from the shelf and onto the floor. As Blaine gave a rueful sort of laugh and bent over to retrieve it, a strangled noise escaped Kurt entirely without his permission, and he suddenly found it wholly necessary to clutch tightly at the countertop next to him, lest his legs suddenly give out and leave him sprawled across the kitchen floor in a mortified heap.

Blaine did an odd sort of shimmy as he straightened up, his movements still in time with the music, and Kurt swallowed audibly, eyes wide. He never thought there would be a time in his life when he would thank the universe for the creation of cotton-blend sleepwear (or for drunken Aunt Mildreds who seemed so intent on purchasing the ghastly pants for him) but, evidently, there was a first time for everything.

Kurt was still ogling shamelessly when the music - and, in consequence, Blaine's impromptu performance - ended and, laughing breathlessly to himself, Blaine turned around.

"Oh, hey!" he said, his face splitting into a surprised smile as he caught sight of Kurt holding onto the cupboard for dear life. Blaine's expression was brighter than the sunlight streaming through the windows, the kind of look that always had Kurt's stomach doing squiggly flip-flops if he stared for too long. The curly-haired boy promptly abandoned his guard of the stove and side-stepped the kitchen island. "When did you sneak in?"

"Narumph." If _love-struck teenage_r were a language, it would have included whatever noise Kurt just issued in an attempt to respond to Blaine's question. It sounded like half-grunt, half-Hungarian … and Kurt didn't know any Hungarian.

Kurt's inarticulateness grew exponentially when Blaine bounded over to his side and wrapped him up in a warm embrace, all tight arms, clutching fingers, and a lingering feeling of sleepy contentment. Any remnants of Kurt's previous irritation at being woken up so early melted away as he folded easily into the hug, ducking his head and rubbing his cheek against the flyaway curls pressed up against the side of his face. Who needed sleep anyway, Kurt thought to himself, sighing softly, and feeling truly comfortable for the first time that morning. A press of dry lips to the side of his neck, and Kurt's sigh lengthened as he became resigned to the fact he would never again be able to pull together two coherent sentences.

Which he certainly was not complaining about, by the way, so long as Blaine kept doing _that_.

"Mmm, you're nice and warm," Blaine murmured into his shoulder, to which Kurt managed to suavely reply, "Pants."

He could sense a fixation forming.

Kurt felt it as Blaine grinned against his shoulder. "Incoherent first thing in the morning. I'll have to remember that one." One more kiss to his neck (_Guh_, Kurt's mind supplied helpfully), and then Blaine was pulling away, smiling softly as he reached for Kurt's hands, lacing their fingers together snugly.

"Hungry?" he queried, swinging their hands gently between them. He flashed Kurt a cheeky grin. "I'm currently in the process of Pancakes Take Two, and they're coming along swimmingly so far, if I do say so myself."

Kurt must have found the inner strength within himself to give some form of coherent acquiesce - a nod, probably, and most likely directed at _the pants_ - because he soon found himself sitting at the kitchen table, a fork clutched in hand, and trying his hardest not to stare too obviously as Blaine presented him with a plate of fluffy, over-sized pancakes, complete with powdered sugar, a sprinkling of cinnamon, and a rather smugly declared, "Et, voila!

"And don't even try to tell me eating these would be a crime against your hips," Blaine teasingly warned as he took the seat next to Kurt and scooted in closer, propping his head up with his hand and leaning forward. His smile showed teeth as he nudged a bottle of maple syrup closer with his free hand. "This is a hip-friendly meal, is officially the only breakfast I can make without embarrassing myself, and I expect full praise once you've finished your last bite."

Kurt didn't answer Blaine right away. It was bright in the kitchen, that disgustingly cheerful bastard of a sun having followed Kurt from the living room, and with Blaine sitting so close that their knees kept knocking together, it was all too easy to notice the purpling discoloration marring the left side of Blaine's face.

Just like that, all thoughts of loose pants and warm kisses faded away. The bruising looked ten times worse from the evening before, and Kurt felt his appetite shrivel up as something clunky and unpleasant settled heavily in his stomach instead, tying it up in knots and leaving him feeling queasy and shaken as half-forgotten recollections from last night hit him with the force of a wrecking ball. The last shadows of dozy sleep left him, awareness making its presence known like a punch in the gut, and a sharp sliver of guilt wedged itself painfully between Kurt's ribs as he gazed tremulously at Blaine, fork clattering uselessly to his plate as he reached up to run his fingers gently across the expanse of swelling cheek.

Blaine was still smiling even as he winced at the touch, and Kurt's throat thickened almost painfully. "Blaine …"

"It looks worse than it feels," Blaine assured him, "I promise." He sucked in a breath when Kurt's forefinger brushed against a particularly sensitive spot. "Except that part. That part feels just as bad as it looks, I bet."

Kurt tried to say something, then - an apology, maybe, or a fierce promise to make things better, to never allow something like this to happen again - but the words got stuck in his throat, and refused to budge. Tears welled in Kurt's eyes as he took in the bandage, the bruising, the brownish-red stain just below Blaine's ear where Kurt had missed when he helped clean him up the night before, and Kurt wanted to cry out his frustration almost as much as he wanted to shout out his anger, to rage against the unfairness of what happened last night; to bellow and kick and _demand _an apology for Blaine, for them, for the people who fought against hypocrisy and unfounded hate on a daily basis. He wanted to spit on Blaine's parents, to _end _Dave Karofsky and Azimio Adams, and he wanted to hold on tight to Blaine, to cry into his shoulder, to beg forgiveness, and promise to never be such a stupid jerk of a boyfriend ever again.

Kurt could not articulate any of this just like he could not articulate Blaine dancing around in baggy pajamas, but Blaine seemed to understand just the same. "Beating yourself up about what happened is just going to make both of us hurt more, you know," he reasoned softly, as he picked up Kurt's abandoned fork and speared some pancake onto it for him.

Kurt eyed the forkful of food Blaine held out for him miserably. "It's my fault Karofsky and Azimio did that to you. If I hadn't accused you -"

"Untrue." Blaine took advantage of Kurt's opened mouth to shove the fork inside. Caught off guard, Kurt sent him a mutinous sort of look, though Blaine merely smirked at him, completely unfazed. "They would have come after one or both of us at some point during the game, whether we argued or not."

Kurt took a moment to swallow - because as upset as he was, there was no excuse for poor table manners - and countered vehemently, "You were _by yourself _because of me, Blaine, and - oh, dear Gaga." Despite being in the midst of what could turn out to be a very serious conversation, Kurt's eyes widened as his mind caught up with his tingling taste buds. He gaped at Blaine, who grinned back smugly. "You're a pancake _wizard_."

"Worth every calorie," Blaine agreed modestly, as he dipped Kurt's fork back toward the plate and coerced more of the breakfast dish into Kurt's mouth; not a difficult endeavor, because _sweet Cheesus _that was delicious. "And I wasn't by myself because of you, Kurt; I decided to leave on my own."

"Only because I made you upset," Kurt rebuked through a moan as Blaine pushed more pancake on him. He couldn't help it, they were _incredible_. "If I hadn't been so insensitive, we would have left together, and holy Oscar de la _Renta_, what did you _put _in these things?"

"A magician never reveals his secrets." Blaine quirked his lips at him, before his expression softened and he rubbed a knuckle against Kurt's cheek. "I'm glad they caught me on my own, Kurt. They've done enough to you, I'd never forgive myself if you were hurt and I wasn't able to do anything to stop it."

"Sort of like how I'm feeling right now, you mean?" Kurt pointed out quietly, his very brief recess into fluffy pancake bliss over. Blaine ducked his head with a sigh, not offering a response, and the two of them lapsed into silence.

"Were you scared?" It was a question that had been swimming in Kurt's mind since Finn's text message, was something Kurt had agonized over for half the night. The image of Blaine; sweet, well-mannered, gentlemanly Blaine, cornered in a dirty hallway lined with faded yellow lockers, the sneering, hulking forms of Karofsky and Azimio advancing on him had blazed bright and terrifying in Kurt's mind for the majority of the night, and was managing to rear back into the forefront of his thoughts even through the light and security of the early morning.

"Honestly?" Blaine lifted his head, gazing openly at Kurt over the plate of pancakes. He lifted his shoulders, dropped them back down. "I was too pissed off to be scared."

He raised the fork back up to Kurt's lips, and Kurt obediently opened, even as he rose a skeptical eyebrow.

Blaine rolled his eyes skyward at the well-worn look. "Seriously, Kurt, you're acting as though they ambushed me with chains and a tire iron." Kurt's lungs contracted painfully at the mere suggestion, though Blaine didn't seem to notice. "I wasn't totally blameless, you know. I mouthed off to them. They said some things about you, I made quips against their manhood, and Karofsky took particular offense, so he shoved me into the lockers." He paused to reflect on something. "Really, if I hadn't decided to break my fall with my face instead of my hands, I probably wouldn't even be injured right now, since Finn and Puck showed up after that."

Kurt took a few extra seconds to digest both the bite of pancake he just swallowed, and Blaine's words. They made him feel slightly better, but not enough to totally appease him. "So," he began, drawing out the syllable, "essentially what you're telling me is the reason you look like you were trampled by a crowd of over-stressed soccer moms at a half-off booze sale is because you were defending my virtue, and are too uncoordinated to utilize your hands while careening toward a bank of metal lockers?"

Blaine licked a bit of maple syrup off his wrist. "You know, you have this uncanny ability to suck the romance right out of my grand gestures." His eyes were warm and crinkling as he helped Kurt finish off the last of the pancakes.

"Honey, the romance died the moment the blood hit my backseat."

Blaine dropped Kurt's fork to his plate and faked a wounded expression. "I think I liked you better when you were begging for my forgiveness."

Kurt knew Blaine was only teasing him, but that did not prevent a squirm of guilt finding its way into his chest as he looked down at his now empty breakfast plate, biting his lip.

"I _am _really sorry," he admitted quietly, reaching a hesitant hand across the table, which Blaine grasped immediately. His eyes flickered up to meet warm hazel. "I should have never said what I did … about you and Casey …"

"No, I'm glad you did." Kurt stared incredulously at him, and Blaine hurried on to clarify, "Maybe not in those exact words, but I _am _relieved to know you're feeling insecure about something, so now we can fix it before it gets any worse."

When Kurt didn't respond - because really, what could he say? Deny it? His little stunt last night proved to everyone sitting on that side of the court that he _was _an insecure fool - Blaine squeezed their hands together. "It's okay, Kurt." He let loose one of his dazzling grins. "We're still new to this, and you and I both know about my track record when it comes to minding your feelings." They smiled wryly at each other, both well aware of their history.

"It did hurt when I realized you thought I was capable of cheating on you, though," Blaine continued, and not for the first time Kurt wished for a black hole to appear out of nowhere and suck his words from the previous night from existence. "Obviously I'm not doing a good enough job to show just how crazy about you I am."

"It's not that," Kurt hastened to object, even as he silently basked in the bubbling warmth that spread through his stomach at Blaine's words. "You're wonderful, and have nothing to do with my insecurities, or my inability to trust certain girls to behave themselves around my attractive boyfriend."

Blaine straightened his shoulders under the praise, beaming as he snatched Kurt's second hand up from the table and held both of them up to his chest dramatically. "Is it horrible of me to secretly love the fact you get jealous of other people like I do?"

Kurt couldn't hide his surprise from this admission. "_You _get jealous?" He was wholly unable to wrap his mind around the image of Dapper Blaine Anderson acting anything other than perfectly polite.

Blaine actually _scoffed _at him. "Do I get jealous?" he repeated, in a tone that always had Kurt inexplicably feeling dim whenever directed toward him. "Have you _seen _yourself?"

When Kurt gaped uselessly at him, unable to think up an appropriate response, Blaine's expression broke with affection, and he kissed the knuckles of both Kurt's hands before telling him sincerely, "I am almost _constantly _fraught with jealousy over you, Kurt. Most of the time I realize I'm being silly, and I know it's nothing intentional on your part, that you're stunning without even trying … but every time you walk out of chemistry, and I catch Marty Silverman side-eying you as he passes - and don't deny it, either!" Blaine added laughingly, when Kurt shook his head faintly, unable to believe what the other boy was telling him. "I watched him walk into a _door _when you dropped your pencil last week."

This mildly perverted information flattered Kurt far more than it should.

Blaine was smirking at him again. "Deny all you want, but you turn heads, Kurt, and it takes a lot of self-control on my part, and constant reminders that you chose me, to resist the urge to tell those leering, hormone-riddled _Casanovas _to stay away -"

Kurt kissed Blaine then, mostly to wipe the smirk from his face, but also to help express just what it was his boyfriend's words were doing to him. To know that he, Kurt, wasn't the only one in the relationship who felt protective of their time together, that Blaine felt the same, that he wanted to keep other people away, wanted Kurt all to himself, felt _lucky _to be with him …

Yeah, that was a bit of an ego booster.

When they pulled apart some time later, gasping for air and gazing dazedly at each other, Blaine murmured throatily, "I should have admitted to that _ages _ago."

Kurt huffed out a laugh and leaned away slightly, though not far enough to dislodge his hands from Blaine's curls … and how did those get in there, anyway? "I really hope it doesn't take a fight over a girl and a battered face to get us to kiss like that again."

"Perish the thought," Blaine mumbled, apparently still dealing with the aftershocks. He pressed a second, softer kiss to Kurt's mouth; it tasted like maple syrup. "Do you want me to stop hanging out with Casey? Because I will, if it makes you uncomfortable."

The offer was tempting - oh, so very tempting. "No," Kurt eventually sighed, his tone put-upon with just the littlest touch of resigned. "Go ahead and keep having your little girl chats with her. Be warned, though, that if I catch that wayward Southern bell calling me 'Kurtie' one more time, I will not be held accountable for my actions."

Blaine grinned. "Noted." Another soft, lingering press of lips. "So, are we officially made up, then?"

"As long as you know that I promise to never again accuse you of getting your study on with Casey," Kurt replied solemnly, a sly grin flitting into place.

"And I promise to not introduce any other wayward women to my parents," Blaine added with a laugh. He leaned forward and kissed the tip of Kurt's nose.

Kurt's heart soared at the cuteness of the gesture, even as he bit his lip again. This was where the discussion turned heavy. "So, your parents …?" He trailed off, trying to convey to Blaine it was completely up to him whether he wanted to continue the conversation or not.

The mood between the two boys shifted, ever so slightly. Perceptions sharpened, shoulders tightened, and grips strengthened. Blaine was silent for a long moment, gazing cautiously, almost contemplatively at Kurt, before he let out a soft sigh and crowded his way into the little bit of space left between them. He rested his curly head against Kurt's shoulder, and Kurt's arms immediately wrapped around him, prepared to give all the comfort and reassurance this discussion may require.

"There's not much to say about my parents," Blaine admitted softly, his voice muffled by the collar of Kurt's shirt. "Besides the fact they're not worth fighting with you, and certainly not worth any tears."

Kurt pondered this, decided not to point out the fact both those things had essentially happened last night, and instead asked delicately, "They're not … supportive?"

Blaine shook his head in the negative; a few curls wisped gently against the end of Kurt's chin. "It's not a big deal, or anything." Kurt wanted to loudly protest, to inform Blaine that his mother leaving him in tears after a three minute phone conversation was the very definition of _big deal_, but he refrained, not wanting to upset Blaine even more.

"I'm used to it, and it's not as though they're abusive." Blaine was trying for nonchalance, but must have realized Kurt wasn't buying it, as he kept his head buried into his shoulder as he spoke. "I mean, I know they love me, or parts of me, at least. I had a decent childhood, we did all the typical happy family things, made lots of memories. It's just these last few years that have been difficult. You know, since I … since I came out."

Kurt made sure to keep his tone light, careful. This was the most he had ever heard Blaine talk about his parents, and he was afraid of scaring the boy off the subject. "They don't accept you?"

Blaine shrugged weakly. "It makes them uncomfortable."

"… Uncomfortable."

"Basically, yeah." Blaine shifted slightly in his seat, ducking his head deeper into Kurt's embrace. "Having a gay son wasn't in their life plan, you know? They've always been social, took their standing in the community very seriously. It was never the _image _they wanted other people to see, having a queer in the family, so when I came out to them in my freshman year, they didn't know how to handle it. They didn't know how to view me anymore. How to understand me. How to _talk _to me." Blaine paused, and Kurt could feel it as he swallowed. "In the beginning the tried to brush it off, and pretend I never said anything. But whe bullying escalated after I came out, and it got to the point where it was impossible for even them to ignore, they decided sending me away to Dalton would be easier for everyone involved.

"I didn't even get to decide whether or not to board at the school." For the second time in two days, Kurt was surprised by the amount of bitterness falling from his boyfriend's words. "They've never admitted it, but I know they shell out the extra two hundred dollars a semester for my single room because they're afraid of what would happen if I slept in such close proximity with a boy." Blaine laughed hollowly. "And isn't that just a lovely thought? That they don't trust me to keep my hands to myself if I share a room with another guy, but they'd rather take their chances boarding me in a school full of them, instead of keeping me at home."

Kurt was appalled that anyone, _especially _his parents, could ever think something so degrading and so disrespectful, of someone as sweet and kind-hearted Blaine. "So they just ignore you for the majority of the year, then?"

Blaine shrugged again. "There'll be an occasional e-mail from my mom, or a five-minute visit to alleviate their guilt. Maybe a Christmas card from the Caribbean, and a week or two spent in awkward silence during the summer if Dad's company can't spare him enough vacation time." He fidgeted absently with Kurt's collar. "But for the most part I'm out of sight, out of mind, and all that."

The hint of loneliness and _pain _in his boyfriend's voice was almost too much for Kurt to bear. "Oh, Blaine …" Feeling as though his heart had plummeted to his knees, Kurt tightened his hold on the other boy. There was so much he and Blaine shared - common likes, dislikes, teenaged shenanigans, day-to-day struggles - but not having a supportive home-life, not understanding what it felt like to have a house full of people who loved and cared about you, who wanted nothing but the best out of life for you no matter how you acted or who you loved … that was something Kurt could never understand and, guiltily, he was glad he never had to.

"When you accused me of being ashamed," Blaine began haltingly, and Kurt jumped at the sound of his voice, surprised out of his thoughts, "of that being the reason I hadn't introduced you to my parents, you were right."

Kurt's back stiffened at the words. Wow - that stung more than he thought it would.

"Well, partly right," Blaine corrected himself, still speaking into Kurt's shoulder, and Kurt held his breath. "I _am _ashamed, but not of you, Kurt. Never of you. You're intelligent and funny and _fierce_, and so gorgeous sometimes I can't help but wonder what you see in me -"

"Stupid thought," Kurt admonished quietly, his voice raspy and thick as he fought back another wave of tears, because how could Blaine not realize he was wondering the same thing?

"- and I love spending time with you, wherever we go or whatever we do," Blaine finished, a smile in his voice as he lifted his head to gaze up at Kurt. His expression turned intense, his eyes bright and emotive as he continued lowly, "You're so important to me, Kurt, and I can't stomach the thought of any of our time together being tarnished by letting my parents near you. Because they'll look at you - impeccable you, dressed to the nines and oozing confidence - and all they'll see is not that I've fallen for my talented, incredible, _beautiful _best friend, but that that best friend is a boy."

It was Blaine this time who leaned in for the kiss, and Kurt - whose heart was determinedly thudding its way through his chest even as it crumbled to pieces, whose eyes welled and throat tightened for the boy leaning against him, the wonderfulbrokenvulnerable_perfect_ boy silently asking for the support and comfort he couldn't get from his own family - Kurt somehow decided that that was the most opportune moment to abruptly remember he had yet to brush his teeth this morning, and have a mild internal freak-out over the disgusting revelation.

Blaine pulled away before Kurt could decide whether or not morning breath was enough of an excuse to interrupt _a moment_, linking their fingers tightly and resting their foreheads together.

"It's them I'm ashamed of," Blaine breathed into the nonexistent space between them; Kurt could feel Blaine's eyelashes brush against his own as the other boy blinked. "And they're the reason I love spending time here. Your family is _so _wonderful, Kurt. They've welcomed me, shown me how a real family is supposed to support one another, and it's so embarrassing to think about how my parents would react if I showed up on the doorstep holding your hand, how different and sad and _wrong _their reactions would be compared to your parents."

Blaine smiled at him then, a little watery though no less heart-shattering, and Kurt had to clear his throat several times before he could get his mouth to work properly again. "You mean how Carole fusses over the amount of food you eat, and the way my dad makes thinly veiled threats whenever he catches you staring for too long?" he finally managed to quip, his voice still thick, and his nose in desperate need of a sniffle - though so far Kurt had refused to give into temptation, because Blaine was literally _right there_.

Blaine let out a little laugh, and straightened in his seat. He produced a tissue from nowhere and offered it to Kurt (Kurt tried his hardest not to swoon; really, he did). "I love everything about your family," he confirmed with a nod. "I love Carole's mothering, Finn's confused blundering … I even love the amount of influence your somewhat terrifying father holds over the length of my lifespan."

Blaine was smiling at him, teasingly, and just like that, the tension in the kitchen was gone. "If it makes you feel any better, I think you're beginning to grow on him." Kurt wiped his nose, tossed the tissue somewhere in the general direction of the trash bin, and then scrubbed his hands through his hair. Ugh, now he remembered why he could never pull off the grungy, non-showered look.

Blaine knocked their shoulders together. "I think it's cute how protective he is of you."

"_Cute _is not the word I'd go with." Fingers pulled halfway through his mussed hair, Kurt paused. "Though, speaking of overprotective fathers …" He frowned as a sudden thought struck him, and he glanced suspiciously around the kitchen, half-expecting Burt to pop up unexpectedly from behind the refrigerator. "It is far too quiet in this house, and we have been willingly left alone for more than five minutes." He turned back to Blaine, brow quirked. "Where is everybody?"

"Your step-mom's at work, you dad was going to speak with your principle when I came downstairs, and Puck arrived a few minutes before you woke up to drag Finn off somewhere."

"Puck was here?" Kurt considered himself lucky he hadn't woken up with genitalia sharpied onto his forehead. It was comforting to see Blaine had survived the encounter, as well. "Was he as crude as ever?"

"Actually, he was pretty subdued." Blaine sounded as surprised as Kurt felt. "He only made one crack about my height, which he called 'obligatory', and spent the rest of the time complaining about the impressive shiner he had to his eye."

Kurt frowned. "He didn't have a black eye when he left last night, did he?"

Blaine shook his head, a grin beginning to form. "Apparently Lauren Zizes' definition of 'second base' greatly differs from Puck's."

Kurt threw his head back and laughed.

* * *

><p>After such an emotionally heavy morning, Kurt and Blaine decided that spending a casual day ("<em>That<em> is casual?" "Of course it's casual, it's only two layers!" "Kurt, you're wearing a vest." "_Backless_ vest, Blaine, _backless_.") eating junk food and watching a few film favorites would be just the thing to help recharge their batteries. Four bowls of popcorn and three versions of _Little Women _later ("_Clearly _Katharine Hepburn is the best Jo, no one can even compare -" "… I don't know, I'm partial to Winona …" "Bite your tongue!"), the rest of the family began filtering in through the front door.

Finn showed up first, toting a bruised and moping Puck along behind him, both stinking to the high heavens, and moaning loudly about the extra drills their basketball coach had put them through as punishment for ditching such an important game.

"He didn't even give us a chance to explain the total awesomeness that was our knight-in-shining bad assery!" Puck complained to them. Kurt had to swallow down a snort when he caught sight of the Lauren Zizes'-sized fist print on Puck's right eye. "How messed up is that? Anyway ... what's for dinner?"

When Kurt dryly reminded Puck he did not actually live there, Puck rolled his eyes and took a long pull from a water bottle. "Whatever, Hummel," he dismissed, smacking his lips obscenely as he replaced the cap and burped. "Ci-Ci totally loves me, and my mom tries to force me to watch _Sophie's Choice _with her if I stick around the house too long. Which is mad depressing, and not just because I know I wouldn't stand a chance against my sister if my mom ever had to make the same choice."

Blaine leaned into Kurt's shoulder to ask who "Ci-Ci" was, but his question was answered when Finn punched Puck in the shoulder, looking very aggravated. "Dude, how many times do I have to tell you? No giving my mom pet-names!"

Shortly after that Kurt banished the two jocks to the upper level of the house until they smelled normal (well, by their standards, anyway), and soon after Burt returned. Kurt's father was laden down with groceries, bad-tempered and stony-faced as he stomped his way into the kitchen, muttering wrathfully about shifty, spineless school boards who would think twice about messing around with the Hummel family if they realized the amount of damage the only mechanic in town could inflict upon their transmissions.

Eventually the three men joined Kurt and Blaine in the living room, just as Winona's Jo was refusing Laurie's proposal ("Wait, so … she's just gonna turn him down? Because they're too good _friends_? But he's hot!" "Puck, dude … why d'you care?" "It's been an emotional few days, all right?"), and by the time Carole staggered into the room looking worn-out and tired, the credits were rolling, and Finn and Puck were in the midst of a heated argument over who would have made the better husband for Jo.

"Friederich was into the same things as her -"

"Ole Freddy was a bumbling little punk. _Laurie _on the other hand …"

"Dude, Laurie was totally shallow -"

"But they grew up together -!"

"I still don't get why that old lady left Jo a school," Burt called out to no one in particular, and Kurt and Blaine snickered into each other's shoulders at the look of wide-eyed shock blossoming on Carole's face as she surveyed the scene before her.

After Carole recovered from the sight of five men bonding over _Little Women,_ and then spent fifteen minutes fussing worriedly over Blaine ("I'm fine, Mrs. Hummel, I promise - yes, the headache went away … no I'm not seeing double - wait, you mean dizzy spells aren't normal? … Kidding, I'm kidding!"), talk of dinner was bantered about, but with everyone still coming down from their various stresses of the day, a solid plan was never formed. Instead the family and two hangers-on snacked on leftover popcorn and some salt-free corn chips Carole found in the back of one of the cupboards, chattering about inconsequential topics and poking fun at each other, though always taking care to avoid any subjects that could lead to a potential damper on the evening.

They were all lounging around the coffee table, finishing up an invigorating game of LIFE ("Dude, it's totally not fair, my house burned down _twice_!" "_You're _complaining? I have three sets of twins! Three! What am I supposed to do with six kids, open a sweat shop?" "You still managed to name all of them, though …" "Well, of course I named them, Blaine, these are our _children_!"), when the unmistakable notes of _Blackbird _began streaming from Blaine's pocket.

"Sorry, everyone," Blaine apologized, straightening from his comfortable position against Kurt's shoulder as he dug a hand into a pocket of the too-long, too-tight pants he borrwed from Kurt (who, after his reaction to _the pants _from this morning, was having a difficult time deciding which pair he liked more).

Blaine seemed to be experiencing some difficulty extracting the phone from within the folds of the tight fabric. "Jeez, Kurt, how do you get into these things?"

Ignoring the smirks Finn and Puck were sending his way, Kurt shrugged delicately and said, "It's a very precise process." A process that involved a lot of wriggling and a fair few expletives cursed at the ceiling, but Blaine didn't need to know that part. "Who called?"

"Just a text from Wes," Blaine informed him, as he slid his thumb over the screen to unlock it. "He's probably wondering where I am -"

He fell silent, his brow furrowing as his eyes scanned over the message. Kurt, who figured it had something to do with an extra Warblers rehearsal Wes wanted to schedule in before the Kingston performance, wasn't overly concerned, and reached out to spin the wheel of life for Blaine.

"Oh dear," he tsked playfully, reading off one of the cards. "A skiing accident - looks like you broke your leg, Blaine. Now who's going to pick up Lafeyette and Dolce from daycare?"

When Blaine failed to answer with the appropriate level of flirty banter previously deemed acceptable while in the presence of the boyfriend's parents, Kurt glanced over at him, catching the tailend of a dubious look as Blaine put away his phone.

"Everything all right, hun?" Carole asked, having noticed the look as well.

"Well, that really depends," Blaine answered slowly, his eyes sliding over to Kurt, who lifted his chin questioningly. "Do any of the Warblers know your address?"

"Nick dropped me off here once when my car broke," Kurt replied blankly, confused by his boyfriend's question. "Why?"

Blaine sighed and pressed a hand against his eyes. "Because I think -"

The doorbell sounded, and Finn lumbered to his feet to go answer it.

"- that we're about to be kidnapped," Blaine finished, shaking his head ruefully as the unmistakable sounds of a dozen boisterous private school boys carried down the front hall.

"They texted a warning before kidnapping you, and then rang the doorbell?" Burt asked with an amused chortle, settling into his recliner and upping the volume of the television, clearly unconcerned with the horde of teenaged testosterone making its way through his house. "What do they teach you boys at that preppy school?"

"Their manners are always impeccable, no matter the occasion." The affection Blaine held for his fellow Glee members was clear. He pulled himself to his feet, and Kurt allowed himself a moment to glance at the unfinished game, and lament over the wasted money and effort he had put into buying so many stocks, before copying his boyfriend, mentally steeling himself for the onslaught of noise as the Warbler boys tumbled energetically into the living room.

Jeff was the first one to bounce through the doorway, all enthusiasm and long limbs, his smile a mile wide as he clapped both Kurt and Blaine on the shoulder, and waved at the Hudmel parents. Nick and Thad followed, the latter with his hands shoved deep in his coat pockets and a moody expression residing heavily on his countenance, the former tripping over an ottoman in his eagerness to high-five Blaine. Wes and David entered at a slightly more subdued pace, Wes akin to a fish out of water without the presence of either his blazer or his gavel, and David patting obsessively at his pockets to ensure he had not yet lost his car keys.

The rest of the Warblers slowly filed into the room, looking odd in their weekend clothes (and, Kurt was dismayed to see, they were positively _hopeless _at dressing themselves), their shouts of "Hey, guys!" and "It's all over Facebook, Blaine, how's the head?" intermingling to create one giant, loud, indiscernible wall of enthusiastic chatter.

They really were a different breed of batty, Kurt thought to himself with a grin. He watched with growing hilarity as Wes apologized for interrupting family time to Burt (whose eyebrows had lifted into his hairline at being addressed so formally), bit back a snicker when Blaine pointedly smacked T.J.'s hand away from his injured cheek, shook his head in amusement while Puck and Louis compared hairstyles, nearly laughed as Finn and Nick bonded over mutual clumsiness, and even managed an incredulous smirk after Trent stiffly complimented Carole on her nursing scrubs.

It was an interesting sight to behold, watching the Warblers interact with his family, and for a few minutes Kurt contented himself with spectating, but when the level of noise became a bit too much to handle, he clapped his hands together and called for quiet. "As titillating as this impromptu soiree may be, gentlemen," he said, once all his fellow Glee club members had quieted down and turned to him, "I'm going to hazard a guess that there's a specific reason you've all commandeered my living room?"

Through the ensuing barrage of sound that resulted after every member of the Warblers tried to answer him at the same time, Kurt managed to only catch snippets of what was being said.

"… A bonfire, you guys, it'll be totally great …!"

"… That we've agreed to this is unprecedented …"

"… There can't be any harm in going, it's not like there's any landing planes this time …"

"… Or Gaps!"

"… Don't care where we're going, so long as there's chicks …!"

"… Let it be known I'm totally against the idea -"

"… Don't listen to him, he's just upset his date with Casey didn't go well …"

Apparently, from what Kurt could gather, there was a massive bonfire taking place somewhere between Lima and Westerville, and the Warblers had collectively decided attending it would serve as an excellent way for Kurt and Blaine to take their minds off the traumatic incident at the basketball game none of the Dalton boys attended but, thanks to social networking websites and the gossipy people who thrive on them, somehow knew all about.

Blaine had been game from the first mention of marshmallows, and though Kurt had taken a bit more convincing ("It'll be fun!" "It's a bonfire in Ohio during _April_, Blaine. On the off chance it doesn't rain and/or snow and/or hail on us, the majority of our singing group is liable to burst into flames if a rogue ember gets too near our over-producted hairstyles."), eventually Kurt caved, and watched with exasperated fondness as the Warblers piled out of the room in an energetic mass, dragging a lightly protesting Blaine with them.

Finn and Puck had retreated upstairs to engage in some form of video game battle, and Carole mentioned something about turning in early, that watching the Warbler boys bounce around the room reminded her just how tired she was. Kurt turned to his dad, who had stood from his chair and was watching the retreating boys with befuddled amusement.

Burt caught Kurt's eye, and nodded down the hallway. "They seem like a good group of kids."

"They are," Kurt agreed, then hesitated. "You don't mind that I'm going, do you? I know it's a little late, but Blaine's going back to Dalton tonight anyway, so I figured -"

Burt waved him off. "It's fine, bud. Go have fun with your friends." He paused, seemed to consider something, and finally dug into his pocket and flicked the keys to the Navigator into Kurt's surprised hands.

"The backseat was detailed this morning, I want you to drive Blaine back to Dalton." When Kurt glanced between the keys in his hand and his dad, confusion apparent, Burt shrugged. "I'm lifting your ban from driving early. I doubt Blaine can see much through that one eye, and I don't know if I trust any of those hopped up Warbler boys to get him back in one piece."

The last comment had the corners of Kurt's mouth twitching, but he still wasn't sure he quite believed his father was being serious. "But what about my curfew? And Blaine's car?"

"Consider your curfew extended the amount of time it'll take you to drive there and back. But not a minute over, got it?" Burt shot him a firm stare. "As for Blaine's car, we'll figure out a way to get it back to Dalton sometime next week."

When Kurt continued to stare at his dad, trying to figure out a hidden angle the older man may have, a carefully constructed parental trap Kurt had yet to spot, something in Burt's expression softened. The lines in his forehead lessened, the tautness around his mouth released itself, and when he reached forward to clap a hand against his son's shoulder, the grip was warm and solid.

"He's a good kid, Kurt." It was a simple sentence, nothing elaborate or flowery, but Kurt and his dad were close, and he had grown up enough to know by now how his father worked. Burt Hummel was a simple man. He didn't use a lot of words, didn't know how to form them together in a way that could properly convey all he felt. It was difficult for him to be open with emotions, even after all the confessions and changes he and Kurt had struggled through together in the past year. He couldn't figure out how to tell Kurt that it killed him to see Blaine hurt; how scared he was that Kurt could have easily been the one with the mashed up face; that it angered and frustrated him to know that nobody was willing to protect them, that _he_, Burt, couldn't protect them.

He didn't understand the Andersons, how Mrs. Anderson could ignore the pleading of her son, could go back to a party knowing her only child had been injured. He couldn't wrap his mind around the concept that there were kids like Blaine - good kids like Blaine - who were living their lives without the support and comfort of a home, were forced to make their way through the world without the reassurance and warmth of the unconditional love of a parent at their back.

Burt couldn't say it, but Kurt could hear it.

So when Kurt pulled on his coat, wound a scarf around his neck, stepped through the front door, and Burt called out, "Make sure Blaine knows Friday dinner's at six!" Kurt knew exactly what he meant.

And that meant more to him than any words his father could say.

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><p><strong>AN2: <strong>Hmm. Don't know about the ending. Don't think I did Burt justice, there. Oh well. I was sleep deprived and swamped with homework when I wrote the last scene out, can't be helped sometimes, unfortunately.

Reviews are love! We're slowly getting there, guys - the big stuff hasn't happened yet, but it's fast approaching, and I'm excited to know what you guys will think of it!

Till next time!


	10. Lady Troubles

**AN: **Once again, I am forced to begin my author's note with an apology. I could go on and on about the reasons why it took me so long to get this chapter out (school, work, hand-eating milkshake machine …) but it's a moot point anyway. The chapter's late, I kept you guys waiting far too long, and I can only hope some of you are still with me and this story.

On a slightly more cheery note: I have a tumblr now! Still trying to figure out how the hell it works (seriously, if ever there was a website to make me feel eighty-seven years older than I actually am …) and my blog is frightfully bleak at this point - but with an injured hand finally on the mend (oh, and to all my readers who have been/are/will be occupational therapists: I appreciate the work you do, but that does not cancel out the fact you're all _sadists_) I'm hoping to maybe pick up on the writing a bit. Post some snippets or whathaveyou's over there.

Link's on my profile if you're interested! Come say hello and make me feel slightly less like the creepily silent lurker I actually am!

**Disclaimer: **Not mine. Never was mine, never will be mine, can we stop rubbing it in now, please?

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Ten: Lady Troubles <strong>

Today was going to be a good day, Kurt thought to himself as he entered the impressive entrance foyer of Dalton Academy, a spring in his step, and a steaming cup of Lima Bean coffee held in each hand. The sun was rising, birds were chirping, his hair looked _marvelous_ - all the ingredients were there for the beginnings of a truly spectacular morning.

His brisk footfalls echoed against the polished floors, bouncing off the wainscoted walls, intermingling with the notes of the cheerful tune he whistled to himself as he walked with purpose down the corridors, his shoulder bag bouncing jauntily against his hip with his movements. The sky outside the mullioned windows was beginning to lighten, streaks of orange and pink striping across the cloudless expanse, giving strong evidence to the weather forecast's promise of another beautiful, sun-filled spring day.

Kurt glanced at his wristwatch, mindful of the medium drip he held in that hand. He grinned; quarter to six - right on time. The halls of the school were mostly deserted at such an early hour, the few early-risers roaming the floors looking puffy-eyed and sleep-rumpled as they traipsed to their early morning meetings. Some stifled yawns behind their hands as they offered mumbled greetings to Kurt as he passed; others stared with drowsy-eyed incredulity at how blatantly _chipper _Kurt appeared so early on a Monday morning.

Ignoring their dubious expressions with ease, Kurt smiled to himself as he hurried to his destination, his steps more quick-paced than usual. He had every reason to be chipper this morning: the weather was about as un-Ohioan as it could possibly be (read: cheerful), the barista at the Lima Bean had complimented his new scarf, he had easily snagged one of the best spots for his Navigator in the student parking lot, and … Kurt's smile widened, his pace quickening even more as he spotted the curly-haired figure standing a few dozen paces in front of him, leaning casually against a familiar iron banister as he hid a yawn politely behind his hand.

Kurt sidled up behind Blaine, taking care to make as little noise as possible. Lowering his voice a few octaves, he ducked his mouth close to Blaine's ear and murmured in as seductive a voice as he could muster, "Hey there, stranger."

He had to bite back a laugh when Blaine, clearly startled, visibly jumped, spinning around and clutching a hand to his chest. And, in answer to the reproving glare directed his way once Blaine calmed down enough to recognize who it was that had crept up on him so thoroughly, Kurt offered one of the coffee cups, quirking a brow. "Come here often?"

Something warm and lovely flickered behind the surprise and irritation in Blaine's gaze, his entire countenance lighting up as his eyes dipped from Kurt's face to the proffered cup. Warm fingers wrapped around Kurt's as he accepted the drink, lingering there, and a smirk slowly formed as Blaine took in the flush that began creeping up Kurt's neck at the simple touch.

"Careful," Blaine said, his tone light and conversational as he pulled his hand away and took a sip of the steaming drink. He hummed his approval before winking at Kurt, playing along. "I'm meeting my boyfriend here, and he's the jealous type."

Kurt's wry look was met with a laughingly unrepentant one.

"Well." Determined to be the victor in their little flirty charade, Kurt sent the other boy a coy smile he spent more time than he was willing to admit perfecting in his vanity mirror, as he slowly walked his fingers up Blaine's sleeve. "Can't say I blame him." When his fingertips brushed against neck and Blaine's breath hitched, Kurt smirked, feeling giddy with triumph.

A feeling which grew considerably when Blaine decided the best way to wipe the smug smile from Kurt's face would be to kiss it away. A hand tugged sharply on Kurt's collar as warm lips flavored with coffee pressed insistently against his, and Kurt fought very hard against melting into the embrace (zero-tolerance bullying policy aside, he would _never _live it down if one of the Warblers happened along and caught Kurt popping a foot up behind him circa 1950's house-wife). Instead he leaned eagerly into the kiss, tilting his head to the side invitingly, the hand resting on Blaine's shoulder slowly sliding up to cup the side of his face, only to pull away with a start when Blaine hissed in a stilted breath through his teeth.

"Sorry," Kurt broke away with a gasp, his mutinous hand now clutching a non-injured part of Blaine's neck as he attempted to catch his breath, feeling slightly dizzy. No matter how many times he did it, Kurt was sure he would never get used to kissing Blaine. "I promise my hand did that completely of its own volition."

"Don't apologize," Blaine mumbled, his eyes glazed and distracted as he stared intently at Kurt's mouth. "I love your wandering hands."

It was hard to tell whether that last sentence was merely exhibit A of Blaine being his adorably oblivious self, or a Freudian slip of epic proportions. Regardless, Kurt's mind instantly short-circuited at the suggestive words, a deep blush making its way to the roots of his hair, because _hello_, as refreshing as it was to learn how imaginative one's mind could actually be, the middle of a private school hallway was very much _not _the appropriate setting for that kind of mental imaging.

While Kurt gaped and sputtered uselessly, his brain a whirr of hot colors, flashy lights, and words like _hands _and _hungry _and, bizarrely, _humdinger_, Blaine took his sweet time to register what precisely it was he had just said.

His response once he did, however, was sufficiently wide-eyed and horror-struck. "Um," Blaine stammered, a flush to rival Kurt's beginning at his ears and working its way downward. He laughed, the sound of it high-pitched, toeing the line between mildly uncomfortable, and a mortification only teenagers in a relationship could properly understand. "I'm just going to go ahead and blame the head injury for that one."

Feeling about ten degrees hotter beneath the collar than he had seven seconds ago, Kurt cleared his throat delicately, "You do that," and let out a silent breath of relief when the words came out coherently. There were unmentionable things tripping eagerly over each other in Kurt's head (he was _really _beginning to regret that Google search he braved after the "pamphlet incident"), and Kurt's brain was frantically pleading with his mouth not to make a fool of them both with its recurring habit of spouting off whatever mad, depraved thoughts he held whenever Blaine was in the near vicinity.

Although, it was a strange sort of comfort to know Blaine seemed to struggle with the same issues. His neck was coloring rapidly as he squinted his eyes shut in embarrassment, the fingers still clutching the back of Kurt's neck digging in briefly as he shrugged his shoulders and admitted sheepishly, "That sounded so much more romantic in my head."

Kurt snorted inelegantly into the side of Blaine's neck at this (because honestly, coming from the boy who experienced a love epiphany during the lament of a dead bird? How _shocking_.), and it only took a few indignant seconds on Blaine's end before he was joining in as well. He clutched at Kurt's shoulder with one hand as his somewhat self-deprecating chuckles bounced along the marble surfaces, resonated clear and brilliantly around them, before landing somewhere deep and warm inside Kurt's chest, reverberating beneath his ribs like a comforting, familiar hum.

This, Kurt decided, as their laughter slowly melted away into soft, carefree smiles, was how it was supposed to be. The two of them, standing together, hearts in their eyes and smiles wide, their banter easy and effortless yet still awkward enough to keep them blushing - this was them. This was the reminder of why they worked so well, and why the weekend from karmic hell could be put behind them so easily. The insecurities had been dealt with, the sad truths laid bare, and though Kurt would brave three days in a row wearing the same designer before _ever _willingly attending another McKinley sporting function again, inevitably their disastrous date had brought them closer. What was left was Kurt and Blaine, holding hands in a hallway, poking fun at each other, and feeling stronger and more secure about themselves and their relationship than ever before.

A relationship that was sweet, and awkward, and maybe a little bit sassy. A relationship that was _them_. Their kind of comfort, their kind of safe, their kind of normalcy - it was Kurt and Blaine at their finest, and Kurt was determined to never take another second of that for granted again.

Taking care this time to avoid Blaine's injured cheek, Kurt brought their mouths together once more, his stomach galloping at top speed when he felt Blaine grin against his lips. For a long moment they stayed that way, coffees held out at awkward angles so as to prevent painful spillage, their free hands gripping each other's necks, completely lost to the world around them as they focused solely on each other.

As involved as they were in gifting each other with a properly enthusiastic good morning, they only broke apart when a boy Kurt recognized from his history class descended the spiral staircase behind them, waggling his eyebrows suggestively as he called out, "Impressive PDA, gentlemen!"

Blaine let out a breathless laugh at the venomous look Kurt shot into the boy's back at the unwelcome interruption. A dark flush was working its way into his non bruise-mottled cheek as Blaine stepped away, plucking Kurt's messenger bag off his shoulder and replacing it onto his own.

"In thanks for the coffee," he said in response to Kurt's (admittedly half-hearted) protests, waving the paper cup around for emphasis.

"You know, generally it's the invalid who gets their bag carried for them, not the other way around," Kurt couldn't help but point out archly, even as he allowed Blaine to grab his hand and begin tugging him in the direction of the Warblers' meeting hall. A strong sense of déjà vu overcame him at the familiar action, and Kurt was careful to school his features, even as his brain performed a mental backflip.

"I am _not _an invalid."

Blaine's tone was indignant. Kurt found this adorable, though he felt it would be unwise to say so, at least until his boyfriend had finished his coffee.

"No," he agreed instead, throwing in a condescending nod which luckily for him Blaine did not catch, "of course not. You are the picture of perfect health. The fact you look as though you tried to comb your hair with a frying pan is obviously nothing more than a clever attempt at skipping PE."

Blaine shot an offended pout over his shoulder, though the effect was lessened considerably by the humor sparkling in his eyes. "It's such a comfort to know you've made the transition from 'fawning worriedly' into 'teasing mercilessly' so easily."

"Well -" an early-riser called out a greeting to them from down an intersecting hallway, and Kurt took advantage of Blaine's momentary distraction to brush a bit of lint from the other boy's blazer - "I figured the seven 'I'm _fine_, Kurt, stop bothering me' texts I received yesterday were to be taken as a hint."

They stopped just before the entrance to the Warblers' meeting hall, where the sounds of soft murmurings could be heard on the other side of the doors. Blaine pulled Kurt around so that they were facing each other, still keeping a firm hold on his hand, and preventing him from entering the room.

"I may have had a few extra-strength Tylenol in me for the majority of the day yesterday, but I know for a _fact _I did not once call you a bother," Blaine countered quietly, and Kurt felt there had to be something inherently pathetic with how much of an affect a pair of pretty eyes could have on his heart rate. What business did Blaine have, anyway, having eyelashes so distractingly long? It was a completely unfair advantage over the rest of them mere, regular-lashed mortals.

Blaine tugged on his hand, and Kurt, stupidly mesmerized, moved in closer without a thought. "I loved having you fuss over me," Blaine murmured, his words soft, and Kurt took a moment to be silently thrilled over the fact his boyfriend had to tip up onto his toes to brush their noses together. "I just didn't want you to spend the rest of your weekend worrying, that's all."

Kurt's eyes let loose their signature move, because _redundancy, thy name is Blaine's Good Intentions. _"Must sting to know your efforts were entirely fruitless." He said it teasingly, but his gaze turned serious as he pulled back far enough to reach up and tilt Blaine's chin this way and that with his fingers, his eyes critical as he inspected the discoloration and cuts marring Blaine's skin.

What he saw had him humming with concern. "Seriously though, how are you?" Blaine's injuries certainly _appeared _less angry than the last time Kurt had seen them - there wasn't as much swelling, for one thing, and the overall hue to the other boy's bruising had turned more greenish than purple - but seeing as less than forty-eight hours ago half of Blaine's face had closely resembled something from one of those zombie apocalypse films Finn was so fond of, that really wasn't saying a lot.

"I'm _fine_, Kurt," Blaine told him firmly, an indulgent head shake the only indication he was in any way, shape or form annoyed by Kurt's hen-pecking. He obediently allowed Kurt to move his head in various directions for a few more seconds, before snagging Kurt's fingers with his own and kissing his knuckles affectionately. "You're worrying over nothing."

"Oh, is that so?" When Blaine nodded confidently, Kurt stepped back and crossed his arms, unconvinced. "Well then, Harvey Dent, since you're so sure of your impressive healing prowess, go ahead and blink both eyes. _At the same time_," he added pointedly, knowing perfectly well this was a basic function Blaine and his swollen eye had yet to re-master. Blaine seemed to realize he had been out-maneuvered, for he scowled playfully and lifted his coffee to his mouth, grumbling something into the cup.

Victory achieved, Kurt cupped his ear with an exaggerated motion and leaned in closer. "I'm sorry, what was that? Didn't quite catch you admitting I was right."

It would be a cold, cashmere-less day in hell before Kurt ever willingly owned the squeak that emitted from him after Blaine, appearing to have grown tired of Kurt's rightfully-earned gloating, swiftly pushed him against the heavy wooden doors behind him and latched their mouths together.

And once again, Kurt's basic motor functions were rendered completely useless by a pair of dastardly talented lips. His surprised "Mmph!" tailed off into a groan, his eyes slipping closed as tingly sensation zinged electrically from his mouth down into his toes. The kiss was unexpected, and forceful, and rather exhilarating … but Kurt wasn't stupid. He could see an attempt to shut him up for what it was, and had half a mind to call Blaine out on it - but the other, much louder half of him was too full of quivering exclamation points to care much about insignificant details such as proper decorum and his pride. Blaine was kissing him - the really good, hot, _trying his damnedest to remove Kurt's tonsils _kind of kissing - up against a door in the middle of school, and if the prospect of a teacher walking by wasn't enough of a deterrent to make Kurt pull away (though this early in the morning, there wasn't much of a worry for detention; Dalton teachers were notorious for holing themselves up in the third floor staff room until right before the start of lessons, fighting each other for dibs to the espresso machine), then nothing was.

The intricate carvings of the mahogany door were digging sharply into Kurt's back, the edges of his and Blaine's messenger bags knocking against each other between their knees, and still Kurt sighed happily into Blaine's mouth as warmth blossomed near his navel and began spreading steadily outward …

… And outward, and outward, and - and _downward _as well. Kurt's eyes snapped open as panic settled in because, oh hell, if what those pamphlets said was true, then this was about to get really embarrassing really fast, and Kurt did not know much about how these things worked, but he did know this should not be happening _in the middle of school_, but _wow_ it was intense, and - he frowned against Blaine's lips, squirming his shoulders against the door - getting rather hot, actually. Uncomfortably so, even. And - and _wet_, and … ow, okay, that was really beginning to sting, and his Google search hadn't mentioned anything about it being _this _painful -

Kurt clued in to what was going on the same moment Blaine did. With two identical yelps they sprang away from each other, Blaine wide-eyed with stunned disbelief as he gaped down at the nearly empty coffee cup now held in his hand, and Kurt with an agonized hop in his step as he fumbled with the hem of his button-down, untucking it haphazardly from his pants, trying desperately to pull the scalding fabric away from his skin.

"Cheesus H. Crust," he swore loudly, tears of pain springing into his eyes as he held his coffee drenched shirt away from his stinging stomach. His gaze was incredulous and accusing as he glared up at Blaine, who was eyeing between his cup and the amber stain on Kurt's uniform shirt with poorly concealed trepidation. "We have _a moment_, and you forget you're holding a cup of coffee in your hand? _Really_, Blaine?"

For a second Blaine dithered, blinking those _damnable _eyes off-kilter at Kurt, seemingly torn between gallantly offering up his own shirt as recompense or turning on the spot and making a run for it. "Consider it a compliment?" he offered feebly, with what he clearly believed to be an irresistibly redeeming smile - a smile that wilted rapidly in the face of the unimpressed glower Kurt gave him for his troubles.

This was the second time Kurt's uniform had been ruined in a week (third time, if you included that one cufflink Kurt was half-convinced was still lodged somewhere within Blaine's curls), and each and every time had been caused - inadvertently, at least - by Blaine. Blown tires, spilled coffees, accessory-eating hairstyles; to Kurt, this was a worrisome trend that required immediate correction. To Blaine, it was a dangerous predicament.

Luckily for him, he was saved from suffering Kurt's wrath by the appearance of a well-timed interruption. The sound of a throat being cleared had Kurt spinning on his heel, the front of his drenched shirt still pulled out in front of him, pinched between thumb and forefinger.

"If you've finished defiling nearly two hundred years' worth of scholarly tradition by acting inappropriately up against the mahogany," Wes began in clipped tones, his sharp eyes flicking from Kurt to Blaine and back again; Kurt could hear the sounds of stifled snickering from behind Wes' shoulders, "we have three songs' worth of choreography to discuss." The senior Warbler's eyes skimmed lower, and his face furrowed with confusion. "Warbler Kurt, what happened to your shirt?"

Kurt scowled. "Your lead soloist happened to my shirt." He snatched the handkerchief Blaine meekly held out to him and began scrubbing furiously at his front, though he knew it would do little good. Coffee stains always required immediate action, after all, and even with having council members as fussy as Wes and Thad leading them, the chances one of the Warbler boys had a stash of club soda and Tide-to-Go sticks hidden somewhere in the meeting hall were not very promising.

Wes watched in silence as Kurt blotted fruitlessly at his shirt, muttering wrathfully to himself as he did so, before fixing his frown on Blaine instead.

"Warbler Blaine," he intoned somberly, tilting an almost pitying look Blaine's way, "we've been over your impulse control issues before -"

"Oh God, Wes, you promised not to bring this up in public …"

"- and I assumed it went without saying that the merits of not jumping all over the furniture also applied to jumping fellow Warblers."

In the room beyond Wes, several hoots of laughter were hastily muffled. Kurt glanced up just in time to watch as Blaine rubbed his free hand across one eye, caught somewhere between politely bewildered and agonizingly embarrassed, and a bit of his own self-righteous _serves you right, you clumsy garment destroyer _thoughts drained away from one last woeful look for his now-ruined shirt, Kurt gave his efforts up as a bad job, pocketing Blaine's handkerchief instead and gesturing wordlessly for the embarrassed boy to precede him into the room.

"How'd you know what we were doing, anyway?" Kurt questioned Wes as Blaine squeezed through the doorway between them, shoulders hunched and keenly avoiding eye contact, to which Wes answered with a dry, "Lucky guess."

Nearly all of the seats were occupied. It seemed that, once again, Kurt and Blaine were the last to arrive. Blaine had paused between two of the leather loveseats, shifting his weight from foot to foot and glancing uncomfortably between the two sofas, as though torn; and Kurt, coming up behind Blaine's shoulder and taking in the seating arrangements, immediately knew the reason behind his boyfriend's anxiety.

There were two open seats left, both of which were located at the far end of their respective couch. One, Kurt noticed with a displeased sneer pulling at the ends of his mouth, was situated beside a darkly-scowling Trent, who took one look at Kurt and turned his head away with a pointed sniff. The other option (Kurt felt his sneer slide into a look of intense suffering) was set up snugly against -

Casey waved cheerfully up at them. "Hi there!"

Ruined uniforms, painful coffee burns, and a choice between If-Looks-Could-Kill Trenton or Casey _the serial giggler_ Dewitt …

… Exactly which Fate had Kurt pissed off that morning?

Blaine was watching Kurt almost guiltily, clearly waiting for him to make the first move, and Kurt couldn't help but feel touched by the gesture. Clearly Blaine understood - especially after Kurt's embarrassingly over-reactive stunt four days ago - that choosing between Trent or Casey to sit beside was, to Kurt at least, a _damned if you do, damned if you don't _scenario that, either way he chose, would inevitably end with him nursing a fierce headache, not to mention an inconsolable urge to physically harm something.

Really, it all came down to choosing between the lesser of two evils, and when one of said evils was eyeing up his boyfriend more obviously than the other one …

"Casey." Kurt considered it a sure sign of his growing maturity when the greeting came out only mildly condescending. "What a -" he slanted a dark look toward the council table "- _surprise _to find you here this morning."

Casey giggled. Blaine sidled closer to Kurt's side, and a calming hand slid over his elbow, gripping above the joint warmly. Still slightly miffed over Blaine's recent addition to his ensemble, Kurt ignored the rather translucent warning easily.

"I woke up early, and decided to see what my favorite group of boys was up to," Casey explained with a shrug and a smile. Many of the surrounding Warblers visibly preened at this, with the exception of Thad, who let out a rather loud sniff from his side of the council table, his arms crossed huffily against his front. Apparently Kurt was no longer the only Warbler who would happily see the end of Casey's rehearsal visits. "Wes was nice enough to let me sit in on another one of ya'lls meetings."

A wink was sent Blaine's way, with the added greeting of, "Eye's looking a hundred times better from last night, handsome," and the grip on Kurt's elbow became less comforting, more restraint-like as Blaine murmured out the side of his mouth, "I will buy you five more shirts if you let that one go."

Having returned to his place at the head of the council table, Wes cleared his throat again, clearly impatient to get on with the proceedings, and Casey patted the seat next to her with a lilting, "I promise I don't bite." Nick, who was sitting on her other side and staring obviously, made a sound reminiscent of a mouse being stepped on at her words, and Casey sent a coy look his way.

As Nick garbled nonsensically back at her, his eyes glazing over, Kurt fixed a strained smile into place, side-mouthed, "_So _going to take more than five shirts," for Blaine's benefit, before pulling his bag free from Blaine's shoulder and sitting purposefully next to Casey, leaving Blaine to hesitate, then slip haltingly into the seat next to a heavily glowering Trent.

Casey was positively beaming as she watched Kurt settle himself into the cushions, and Kurt tried his hardest to keep his expression tolerating and not murderously scandalized as she immediately latched onto him, squeezing his arm and _wrinkling _the fabric.

"Your hair is looking _gorgeous _this morning," she whispered against his ear, as the gavel sounded and Wes and David began their perfunctory argument over the whereabouts of that week's minutes. Before Kurt could properly digest receiving a (remarkably accurate) compliment from the girl he commonly envisioned falling off very tall buildings, she continued, "And don't worry, you can barely notice that little old stain on your shirt."

The stain was dark amber in color and easily the size of a dinner plate; Kurt stared woodenly down his nose at her, an eyebrow arched.

"… David, saying your roommate 'accidentally' lined his hamster cage with our minutes is not a sufficient enough excuse!" Wes' irate voice rose above the din of the rest of the people in the room, and the Warblers turned collectively to watch as the three council members argued heatedly with each other.

"Well, what do you suggest I should've done differently?" David retorted, looking affronted. "Brought the cage in with me? Picked through Smoky the gerbil's excrements just so I could read about how council members Wes and Thad argued for forty-five minutes over whether or not adding a 'pop' to our shuffle-step-shuffle-shuffle-snap routine would be too risqué for a nursing home?"

"It was a legitimate concern!" Thad cut in crossly. "Some of the residents could have _pacemakers_, for God's sake!"

"Forgive me, I didn't realize _pop _was a euphemism for 'taser the old people' …"

Casey leaned into Kurt's shoulder. "Is it just me, or do those boys getting all worked up just make you _shiver_?"

Kurt did not answer her. He felt staring back in abstract horror would be adequate enough.

Wes threw up his hands. "Councilmen, we already decided to remove the pop as a precaution, I'm not about to bring it back to a vote!" The gavel sounded, and Wes sighed wearily. "I don't think I need to express the importance of this performance, and how we can't afford any mishaps? After The Gap Attack That Should Never Have Been, and last weekend's bonfire episode -"

"That wasn't a performance, though …"

Wes waved Warbler Louis' comment away impatiently. "Thanks to a certain _soloist _and his inability to refrain from serenading people during inappropriate settings …"

As the snickering from earlier made a reappearance, Blaine raised a hand. "In my defense, I would just like to point out that at the time I didn't realize people other than Kurt could hear me, and also I have it on good authority that the other bon fire attendees appreciated my Christina Aguilera medley."

Kurt nodded his agreement. While that last encore of _Dirrty_ may have been pushing it, Blaine's rendition of _What a Girl Wants_ had been a sight more romantic than _When I Get You Alone. _

… Not to mention he had been _working _it with that marshmallow poker.

Wes, however, did not appear to share Kurt's views on the matter. "Warbler Blaine, whether unknowingly or not, you turned an innocent gathering into a mildly explicit performance, word of which got back to the dean who's now breathing down our necks, and thanks to that absolute _fiasco _of a night -"

Thad scoffed. "I'd hardly call Saturday night a _fiasco_, Wes …"

"Hardly a fias - Warbler Russ was _set on fire_!"

"Warbler Russ' _coat _was set on fire," David corrected, as though the distinction made all the difference.

Clearly it did not to Wes, who was now eyeing his fellow council member dubiously. "Are you implying that the igniting of one of our prized baritone's clothes is _not _something to be concerned with?"

"What I'm implying is he was barely even singed. The aerosol can blew up _after _he let go of it, and Warbler Jeff informed me he's recovering nicely."

All heads swiveled to Russ' roommate; Jeff was perched on the piano bench and picking absent-mindedly at a loose thread in his cuff. "His eyebrows are still missing, but he can sit down without crying now," he confirmed with an unconcerned shrug.

"Yes, well." Wes shuffled the papers in front of him, a clear indication he was ready to move on to a different subject. "Let Warbler Russ' predicament be a lesson to us all -"

"Processed cheese really _can _kill you?" Kurt quipped to the general hilarity of the room, though Wes' fiercely quelling glare had them all shifting in chastised-toddler silence moments later.

"- that all public outings are an opportunity to uphold the traditions and good-standing of the Warblers, and _some _of us" (a pointed look was thrown Blaine's way, who sent back one of total innocence) "should take care to remember that.

"Now, speaking of Warbler Russ, we have to discuss rearranging our positioning for this weekend's performance …"

The meeting proceeded from there as normal. Wes and Thad spent fifteen minutes battling each other over whether the back line should hold an uneven amount of Warblers, as opposed to the front; an additional ten were wasted pondering over whether or not the nursing home would have adequate enough lighting to put their formal tie bars to good use. Warblers Jeff and T.J. were reprimanded for miming strangulation with their own ties; Blaine had to fend off several sycophantic compliments pertaining to his vocal range; and David received a gavel-whap to the back of the hand for turning Wes' meeting notes into a paper duck while the Head Warbler wasn't looking.

As was his way, Kurt paid little attention to the happenings of the Warblers surrounding him. He had learned early on that the best course of action for him during one of these meetings was to raise his hand whenever Blaine (the sanest of the Warblers) did, nod superfluously when Wes glanced in his direction, and spend the rest of his time planning weekend outfits. This time, however, did not lead Kurt very far into his Spring 2011 wardrobe. Instead of coordinating waistcoats with boots and mentally comparing the positive points of homburgs versus fedoras, Kurt was forced to concentrate all his attention on fending off the overly-excitable, excessively bubbly, weirdly _handsy _female sitting to his right.

Casey, it seemed, thrived in the midst of bickering school boys and, no matter how hard Kurt dug his elbow into her side, appeared determined to invade his personal space to share her every thought with him. Which was a shame, as Kurt was sure he could have happily lived without knowing what effect Wes' gavel had on the girl's nervous system, how _luscious _Warbler Nick's hair looked up close, and how upsetting it was that council member Thad had taken her rejection so hard.

"I mean, it's not as though we were _dating _or anything," Casey whispered into his ear, as Wes shouted something at Warbler Devon pertaining to inappropriate hand movements.

Realizing Casey was looking at him expectantly, waiting for a response, Kurt gave a non-committal grunt, as the majority of his attention was focused on keeping his movements subtle as he tried to extract his arm from Casey's clutches.

It was a fruitless effort; the girl had a freakishly strong grip for someone so petite, and clearly couldn't take a hint even if it quite literally smacked her in the face (was she truly that obtuse, or did harpies simply feel no pain?). In all seriousness, though - where was a crowbar when you needed one?

"It was just one little date," Casey continued breezily, apparently under the false impression that Kurt trying to squirm away from her meant he was positively _enthralled _with her tale. "He's a nice boy and all that, but I think we're better off as friends, don't you?"

"If you thought that before, then why did you agree to go out with him in the first place?" Kurt snarked, his frustration with having one of his least favorite people clinging obliviously to his side like a damned limpet bleeding through his tone. He gave an impatient jiggle to his shoulder, and huffed out a breath through his nose when the movement proved ineffective. Slumping resignedly against the back of the sofa, he glared down at her. "Sort of unfair to Thad, don't you think?"

Casey blinked back up at him. "But isn't that what we do?" she asked him, sounding genuinely puzzled.

_Isn't what who does_? Kurt stared at Casey, eyebrows disappearing into his hairline. _Is she speaking in trollop-code, or something_? He was beginning to feel as though he was missing something. Or that she was purposely trying to irritate him. Either way, he really wanted to stuff his tie into her mouth to block out the noise.

But Casey had moved on with the conversation before Kurt could either demand clarification or signal an _S.O.S. _to Blaine. "Besides, I like them a bit more _sensitive_," she continued in a sultry murmur; and Kurt found himself wanting that crowbar for a whole different reason as he watched Casey send a finger wave in Blaine's direction. Blaine, with a carefully neutral expression in place, pretended not to notice. "Every girl deserves a prince charming, doesn't she?"

Kurt wanted nothing more than to plaintively inform Casey she was barking up the wrong tree - the very wrong, very taken, very _gay _tree - and then push her out a window for good measure, but he kept himself tight-lipped instead. He was mature, he reminded himself sternly. He was an emotionally growing person in a committed, _trusting _relationship. Blaine had made it perfectly clear to him that Kurt had nothing to worry about on that end. And yes, Casey was an abominable flirt clearly itching to set her harpy claws into Blaine's excessively obtuse flank (_Cheesus Hummel, do _not _think about your boyfriend's flank in _public …), and as much as Kurt wanted to string her up by her hideously unfashionable socks and call her out on her floozy ways, he could - no, he_ would _be the bigger person.

Because he was mature. And nearly an adult. He was a calm, collected, _mature _adult.

And besides, it was getting increasingly harder to make "accidental shove down a staircase" seem believable these days.

Kurt's phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out with a furtive glance and unlocked the screen.

_Meeting almost over, and you haven't upended your mocha on her yet. I'm so proud ;) _

Kurt snorted and glanced over at Blaine. Blaine grinned back, his eyebrows waggling up and down cheekily. Shaking his head indulgently, Kurt tapped out a quick response: _There's been enough wasted coffee for one morning already, thank you very much _and snorted again when Blaine sent him an affectionate wink, glanced down at Kurt's response, and exaggerated a pout.

"You two are _so _cute together," Casey gushed, the sound of it ringing so falsely in Kurt's ears his teeth practically _vibrated _with it. She hugged Kurt's arm and leaned across him to wave at Blaine again, who took one look at the murderous glint in Kurt's eyes and hastily pulled Trent into a conversation about - _shoe polish? Really, Blaine_?

Kurt made it a point to jab another elbow into Casey's side as he put his phone away, and was thoroughly disappointed when she dodged the movement effortlessly. "Sending sweet little texts to each other during rehearsals … too precious. I hope y'all never break up."

_Liar, liar, so-short-it's-clichéd skirt on fire_.

"And speaking of cute boys …" Casey dropped her voice conspiratorially and moved in closer; and Kurt, silently cursing Mercedes for molding him into such an attention-hungry gossip, found himself tilting his head down to hear her better. Casey glanced coquettishly over her shoulder, then back at Kurt. She wiggled her eyebrows. "How long do you think it'll take me to convince the adorable Mr. Nick to buy me lunch?"

Not long, as it turned out. Ten minutes, two doe eyes, and one strategically-placed hand later had Nick nearly tearing a hole through his blazer trying to extricate his wallet to buy Casey a pre-lessons latte. Kurt watched, arms crossed and eyes narrowed, as the two of them exited the Warblers rehearsal room, Casey all smiles and twirling a piece of hair coyly around one finger, and Nick tripping over air on every third step.

"There's something going on with that girl," Kurt declared, as Blaine sidled up next to him and laced their fingers together warmly. "Something suspicious."

Next to him, Blaine "hmm'd" neutrally. When Kurt lifted a brow at him, he held up his free hand and pointed to himself, "Switzerland, remember?"

Ah, yes. The lady chats. How could Kurt forget?

"So you think it's completely normal of her to bounce from Warbler to Warbler, giggling as she goes?"

"You think it isn't?"

Kurt shrugged. It was a niggling little thought he had; an itch in his brain that try as he might Kurt could not scratch. It was a feeling, almost a memory, tipping along the edges of his mind, twirling enticingly around the fuzzy edges of remembrance and dancing away tauntingly before Kurt could fully grasp it. He didn't know what it was or why he felt it right then, as he watched Casey's smile falter as she glanced in Thad's direction, but there was something about the way the girl acted just then - how her laughter hitched barely noticeably, the way her shoulders shifted, the flicker Kurt caught in her eyes as she turned away - that had Kurt thinking he had seen it somewhere before.

Blaine tugged gently on Kurt's hand, murmuring something about grabbing him one of his extra uniform shirts before classes started, and Kurt spared one more moment to ponder over Casey's odd behavior, before the realization of _holy hell, you're going to smell like _Blaine _for the rest of the day! _sufficiently distracted him.

No doubt what Casey was doing was suspicious, but Blaine smelled _heavenly_, and Kurt was only human.

* * *

><p>Kurt vowed to keep a closer eye on Casey throughout the week, but it wasn't until the following Friday that everything came to a head.<p>

"Warblers, take your places!" Wes whispered frantically from his position on the side of the nursing home's makeshift stage. Kurt slipped into his spot in the front row between Jeff and Zach, offering a little wave to Blaine who was standing three Warblers down. Blaine grinned and blew him a kiss, then kicked at David when the tall tenor pretended to catch it.

"Decent turnout," Jeff mumbled to Kurt as he gazed around the sterile white recreational room full of the Kingston Retirement Community's residents. "Most of them look awake, even." He nudged Kurt in the ribs with a smirk. "No sign of any cats yet."

"Don't let that fool you," Kurt murmured back as he eyed a particularly cantankerous-looking old man in the front row warily. "The last woman had the thing hidden under her nightdress."

Warbler Devon poked his head in between them from the back row. "Is that Casey sitting out in the audience?" he asked them, squinting his eyes and gesturing to a corner of the room where an unfortunately familiar bob of hair could be seen sitting between a man dozing in a wheelchair and a grandmotherly old lady knitting a hat.

"Yeah, it is," Jeff replied, frowning slightly as he glanced back at Devon. "She here to see Nick?"

"Nah, man, that ended ages ago. She's with Zach now -"

"She's not," Zach grunted out from beside Kurt, his face dark and mulish as he glared out into the audience. "Ditched me to go play nurse with _Russ _-"

"Nuh-huh." Jeff shook his head in disagreement. "She hasn't been to our room at all this week. Trust me, I would've heard about it if she had."

Devon looked thoughtful as he whispered, "Louis mentioned something about taking her out for pizza on Wednesday -"

"Yeah, and on Thursday he skipped classes and refused to talk to anybody about it …"

_This all happened in a _week? Kurt thought dazedly to himself. _What is this, The Bachelorette: Warbler Edition?_

The overhead lights dimmed. Wes began hissing and flapping his arms at them like an angry goose, so the boys felt it would be within their best interests to hold in their speculations until the end of the performance.

A performance that went off without a hitch, as it were. Blaine, of course, was in top form. He dazzled the crowd with his usual amount of energy and finesse, slipping into his showman's persona with ease. He danced with the residents that could, and hammed it up for the ones that couldn't. He crooned his way into the hearts of all the ladies, so by the time the final note of their last number cut off, Blaine's cheeks were rosy from being pinched so many times, the pockets of his blazer stuffed with boiled candies, peppermints, and one pair of dentures a little old dear slipped into the back of Blaine's pants with a wink and (judging by Blaine's scandalized expression and how he bolted for the safety of Kurt's side immediately after) congratulatory pinch.

Blaine swore he was traumatized by the whole affair. Kurt could not remember a time when he had laughed so hard in his life.

"It's what you get for being such a lady killer," Kurt chortled after the performance had ended, as Blaine huffed and grumbled out something about violated personal space. He reached up to ruffle Blaine's hair, and laughed again when his hand was pointedly slapped away. Blaine really was too cute for his own good sometimes, and the clamoring old women just proved Kurt's point. "If you weren't so darned charming all the time, we wouldn't have this problem, now would we?" Blaine scowled huffily and stomped away.

Unrepentant, Kurt grinned at Blaine's back. The thrill of a successful performance mixed with the high of laughing so exuberantly left him feeling floaty and light, his head positively thrumming with unspent energy. Warblers all around were bestowing congratulatory backslaps and high-fives to each other as they mingled with the residents and helped break down the stage, their loud chatter and booming laughter lending an excitably charged feel to the atmosphere in the room.

Kurt was feeling so positive, in fact, that he barely blinked an eye when Casey meandered her way through the crowd and issued Blaine a platonic-if-you-squint sort of hug. He hardly noticed it at all when she lingered a second too long, and the fact her arms were squeezed so snugly around Blaine's neck as she laughed something into his ear was barely a ping on Kurt's Irritating Women radar. He _certainly _didn't care when Blaine had to physically unwrap the girl from him to gain some distance between them, and found it absolutely _charming _when Casey reached out to squeeze Blaine's bicep instead.

Floaty and positive. Yes, that's what he was feeling. Nothing of the negative sort whatsoever. Nope.

Wes and David joined Blaine and Casey. Kurt watched as Casey reached up and began fiddling with something on Wes' collar, every aspect of her posture screaming _on the prowl_ as she laughed in response to something the Head Warbler said.

_Positive. Floating. Positively floating. Floating positively. Fositively ploating, floa -_

David said something, and everyone laughed as Blaine grinned something in response; Casey twirled her hair coyly, glanced in Kurt's direction, tilted her head just so, and _winked_.

Something in Kurt's brain snapped. _That's it_.

Within three seconds Kurt was striding over to the group, pulling Casey away from the boys with a smoothly entreated, "Excuse me, gentleman, but this darling young woman has the makings of a mascara massacre on her hands and, well, duty calls …" and marching the thoroughly confused girl ("… But Kurt, I'm not wearing any mascara …") into a much quieter, blissfully witness-less back room.

"You," he barked, letting go of her arm and shoving her none too gently toward a plastic chair, "sit."

Casey sat, crossing her legs at the ankles and looking mildly concerned as Kurt towered over her, his posture stiff, his expression thunderous.

"Kurt, are you all -?"

Kurt held up a hand, silencing her. "I'll do the talking, you'll do the listening. Got it?" At Casey's alarmed nod, he dove in. "I'll cut right to the chase. I'm not like the other boys at Dalton. I have an in when it comes to enemy territory: I _know _things about women they don't understand, will live their whole lives trying to figure out, but ultimately fail in wrapping their naïve little minds around. Things are simple with them. See a pretty girl, like a pretty girl, date a pretty girl. If you happen to be a pretty girl, it's easy to manipulate, isn't it?"

"Kurt," her tone was baffled, clearly not having expected nor understanding where Kurt was going with this, "I don't -"

"They look at you and they see a sweet Southern belle who giggles like a saint and gives new meaning to the term _school boy fantasy_. But I can see right through that little act of yours, sister, and it's starting to get old."

Casey's expression was still confused, but Kurt thought he could detect a spot of color blossoming over each cheekbone, and he took a sick sort of pleasure in knowing he could crack her sunshine façade so easily. She shook her head faintly. "Kurt, what are you -"

Kurt continued on mercilessly: "I spent over a year in close quarters with Santana Lopez, the meanest of man-eaters out there, so I know the tricks. I know what the looks mean, and the touches, and the _laughs_, and I'm telling you now that I'm on to you, Dewitt. Oh yes," he added, as Casey's mouth dropped open and she stared up at him with something akin to horror, "I'm on to you, and I've _been _on to you since you first entered that school. You may think a few winks or a flirty smile or two is enough to mask the truth, but I've seen what you've done to the Warblers, what you're _trying _to do with my boyfriend, and nothing you say is going to convince me that you are nothing more than a soulless, malicious little _tramp _who'll stomp over the hearts of every boy she meets, disregard their feelings and _commitments_, just to achieve her own ends!"

The silence that followed Kurt's declaration was ringing. Kurt stood there, fists clenched and breaths heaving, vindication soaring through him as finally, _finally _he could end the charade. It was a freeing, _glorious _sensation, knowing he had held nothing back, had laid all the cards on the table and let Casey Dewitt know exactly what he thought about her, to hell with how she reacted.

Of course, Kurt wasn't counting on Casey to slowly stand from her chair, lift up a trembling chin, mumble a tremulous, "You're right," and burst into tears.

Nor did he expect her to fling her arms around his neck, bury her face against his shoulder and sob brokenly into his shirt.

He _definitely _didn't foresee the way she would gasp out a, "I'm sorry," or, "I'm so _awful_," or a hiccupping, "Please, for-forgive me."

But when Casey's knees buckled and Kurt had to stoop to support her weight, his ear lowering just in time to hear her whisper two painfully familiar words against his collar, he couldn't help the thought that slammed into his mind as his burning anger and fierce vindication gave way to stunned incredulity and dawning compassion:

_I really should have seen this one coming_.

* * *

><p><strong>AN#2: <strong>… So how many of you hate me for leaving you hanging? If it makes you feel any better, I hate me for it too.

I'll try (and try, and _try_) to get the next one out sooner. If you follow me on tumblr, I promise I won't sass anyone who bugs me for updates. I could use the motivation!

Reviews are, as always, greatly appreciated. And coveted. And devoutly cherished.

Till next time, lovelies!


	11. Conversation in a Coffee Shop

**A/N: **And here we go, with chapter eleven! This one was a bit difficult to churn out. Personal, real life troubles have been keeping me a little low, but the kind words of my reviewers and supporters on tumblr really helped me get this one written. And for that, I thank you all.

As always, reviews are loved and adored. I'm really interested to hear what you guys think about where I'm taking this story - there's going to be two really fun chapters coming up, then a wind-down chapter, and then the ending! I'm starting to see the end of this story, nearly a year after posting it, and I have to say, it's been a wild and fun ride so far, and I'm so glad you guys are here sharing it with me.

**Disclaimer: **None is mine.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Eleven: Conversation in a Coffee Shop<strong>

Kurt was having a difficult time understanding how he had managed to find himself in his current situation.

He could remember the basics. There was anger on his end; lots of pointing fingers and accusing words, an unpleasant slur or two, and a fair amount of that abominable indignant sashaying he never managed to keep a grip on when he was feeling particularly riled up.

But then crying had factored in somehow – not from him, shockingly enough – and Kurt's ire had swiftly turned to confusion. Confusion then melted into bewilderment, which next slid into startling comprehension before landing, albeit grudgingly, on compassion.

Awkward compassion, because it turns out Kurt is as much a clueless idiot about girls crying as the next guy, and (judging by the large wet blotch and make-up smears now residing on his blazer shoulder) his fluttery, hesitant, pathetic-attempts-at-soothing _there, there_ motions could use some work.

In his defense, though, it was not every day a girl confessed her deepest, darkest secrets to him. Well, Rachel Berry did. But her confessions generally involved lusting after Howard Keel circa Seven Brides, and agonizing over whether or not her sweater horses strayed too far over the Seabiscuit line into My Little Pony territory. Which, hilarious future blackmail material aside, was hardly a book deal in the making.

So there had been yelling, then crying, and at first Kurt's sensibilities had put up a valiant fight. It was Casey Dewitt, after all, the girl Kurt had been harboring alarmingly imaginative and colorful ill-will toward for some time; one shocking revelation was hardly enough to send that sort of dedicated loathing for the hills. She had been the bane of his existence for too long. She was unpleasant and shrill, especially while crying, and her complete lack of appreciation for all things vintage and fabulous was translating to burying her tear-stained face into Kurt's scarf, and _I did not suffer four days of intense accessory allowance negotiations with Wes and back-alley dealings with Thad for my favorite Burberry accent to be ruined, _and Kurt was fully prepared to crack down on such brazen blasphemy … but then Casey pulled out the big guns. It started with a meek, "I'm sorry," coupled with a hiccuped, "I've ru-ruined your scarf," and a panicked inner monologue _Resist resist resist resist _which crumbled in the face of, "And you l-looked so _n-nice _in it!", and before Kurt knew it, he was snared.

He had done what he swore he would not do, and fell victim to the wiles of one Miss Casey Dewitt.

It wasn't his fault, he reasoned with himself as he tugged Casey through the chattering crowd of Warblers and Kingston patrons. These things happened to the best of them. Kurt was only human, after all, and Casey was practically a school-boy savant – the hormone guru of the boarding school world. None of them were safe. Clearly she had figured out that the quickest way through Kurt Hummel's defenses was by using his accessories.

Plus, the girl had been _crying_. Kurt may come off aloof and haughty on his best days, but she had been body-wracking _sobbing_. On his _scarf_. After admitting something _huge_. Casey may very well be the most insufferable woman in his acquaintance, but Kurt wasn't completely heartless.

It was all a bit of a blur after that. Kurt could recall Casey crying inconsolably against his shoulder, remembered feeling her hitched breathing when he asked whether any one else knew, the vice grip when he offered to talk about it, the halting nod when asked whether maybe a coffee would help to start off (because, as has been said, Kurt is clueless when it comes to crying girls, and coffee is sort of his go-to with situations of a dramatic nature). After that there had been jumbled questions of concern from the Warblers, a speedily thought-up "Mascara wand mishap, boys, just getting our lovely Casey here to the ladies' room to help wash her eye out" from Kurt, and suspicious brow-raising from Blaine because, thanks to Mercedes and her insistence on having Blaine join at least one of their girls' night-ins, he knew perfectly well Kurt simply did not _do _mascara mishaps.

_That_ was going to be a fun conversation.

And now Kurt found himself here, sitting in the drivers' seat of Casey's fiercely impressive Mercedes-Benz, the space between his ears steeped heavily in shocked disbelief, half his concentration on the GPS screen showing him the quickest routes to the finest caffeinated beverages the city of Findlay had to offer (so far Tim Horton's, a Stop-Go gas station, and a wittingly named Cuppa Joe's, which principle alone dictated Kurt avoid), and the other half focused closely on the shaking shoulders of the huddled form to his right.

Needless to say, this was not what Kurt had in mind as the outcome of calling Casey Dewitt a soulless tramp.

Kurt's phone began ringing in his pocket, the mellow tones of Blaine's 'Walk Tall' ring-tone (Kurt had been feeling especially ironic that day) breaking through the thick silence in the car.

Kurt glanced over at Casey, who was gazing out the passenger side window, stoically silent. His fingers tapped an anxious beat into the steering wheel. Kurt's first instinct was to answer the call – he was supposed to be driving back to Dalton with Blaine, after all, and his boyfriend was no doubt wondering what was getting him and Casey so chummy all of a sudden – but one glance at the tear streaks glistening along Casey's cheek as she stared listlessly into the blurring landscape had him hesitating. There was a very real possibility that Casey had not let slip to anyone else what she had just confessed to Kurt, and while Kurt knew that Blaine would be a far better bearer of such sensitive information (he actually_ enjoyed _Casey's company, for one) it was far from Kurt's place to tell another's secrets.

He could respect Casey's decisions on who to tell and when to say it – not that he would ever understand why the girl chose _him, _of all people – but he couldn't deny that keeping the information from Blaine was going to prove an interesting endeavor. From the beginning of their friendship, Blaine had been able to read Kurt like a book, could tell his mood just by the tone of a text message, and Kurt had never been known to keep his emotions to himself. Like Casey was the boy whisperer of Dalton, Blaine was _Kurt's _own private Cesar Millan, and would be able to tell something was up the moment Kurt answered the phone, if he didn't suspect already. So if Casey didn't want anyone else to become privy to her confession, how exactly was Kurt going to explain all of this away?

As Kurt silently debated over whether or not to answer, from his pocket the ringing continued until, wordlessly, Casey reached over to the dashboard and twisted a couple of the dials. A moment later, her car's Bluetooth kicked in, politely informing Kurt he had an incoming call.

_I'm taking that as a hint, _Kurt thought to himself, slanting another look Casey's way as he pressed the green "Accept Call" button on the steering console and Blaine's disembodied voice began streaming in through the speakers.

"_Kurt_?" Blaine's voice asked hesitantly. "_You there_?"

"Hey, Blaine," Kurt called out louder than necessary, though he did not know that yet. His Navigator didn't have Bluetooth, Kurt had never used the device before, and where the hell did they keep the mic, anyway?

"... _Why are you shouting at me_?"

Apparently closer than Kurt anticipated. Kurt shot an apologetic glance in Casey's direction, who seemed for all intents and purposes ignoring the conversation going on in her car. "I'm on Casey's Bluetooth."

"_Really_?" There was a pause on the other end of the line, then: "_Does that mean you're driving her car_?"

"Yes." Another pause. Kurt could practically feel Blaine's suspicion oozing in through the speakers so, in an attempt to keep the atmosphere light, Kurt joked, "Remind me to buy one of these babies next time I have ninety grand lying around."

The quip did not have much of an affect; Blaine, it seemed, was entirely too focused on the details of the situation. "_Why are you driving her car_?" And then, more suspiciously, "_She's still conscious, right_?"

"Of course she's still conscious!" Kurt scoffed, offended Blaine would think him capable of physically harming her ... and yes, okay, Kurt _may _have made the occasional off-hand comment about bludgeoning Casey with her own woefully unfashionable handbag, or tearing her hair out one horrifically styled clump at a time, but that didn't mean he would ever _act _on the desire!

Even outdated accessories didn't deserve such treatment.

"_Because don't think I believe for a second that excuse you made to get her away from the Warblers_," Blaine's voice continued undeterred. "_You've got the dexterity of a surgeon, _especially _when it comes to eye make-up application_."

The boy made a valid point. "It is one of my many gifts," Kurt conceded, then sighed when Blaine remained pointedly silent. He addressed his passenger, "Casey, say hello to Blaine to prove to him you're still breathing."

Casey stared mutely out the window.

_Oh sure, _now _she shuts up_. "She's retouching her rouge," Kurt snatched wildly at the fib, floundering for an excuse that would keep a girl as verbose as Casey normally was from talking. "Very precise work; eating up all her concentration." He forced a laugh. "You know how it is, one wrong swipe and it's good-bye demure debutante, hello eighties glam-rock guitarist."

"_Uh-huh_." Blaine sounded skeptical, and for the first time ever Kurt found himself cursing the fact he had managed to find a boyfriend who actually _did _read _Vogue _for the articles. "_What's going on, Kurt_?"

Kurt drummed his fingers against the steering wheel, thinking quickly. "Would you believe a passionate love affair?"

… Yeah, all right, so Kurt failed spectacularly at coming up with excuses under pressure, but really, Blaine – stop laughing any time now.

After a long moment of uncontrolled snorts and snuffling on the other end of the line (during which Kurt impatiently counted to ten in his head. Twice.), Blaine managed to rein in his mirth. "_I knew there was a reason to keep you around_." His voice sounded warm and fond, and Kurt's mouth was pulling into an answering grin despite himself. "_So ignoring the fact you are blatantly keeping me in the dark about something –_" _Oh Blaine, you have _no _idea _… "– _are you driving back to Dalton, or what_?"

Kurt hesitated. "We're … grabbing a coffee, actually."

"_A coffee._" There was a definite note of incredulity in Blaine's voice now. "_You are willfully driving Casey – the same girl you threaten to 'put the fear of Joan Rivers into' on a regular basis – to get a coffee_." Another pause, before Blaine felt the need to clarify, "_In public_."

Kurt bristled at the circle on the ceiling he thought might be the mic. "Is that so hard to believe?"

"_Well, that depends. Is this coffee located near a heavily-wooded area_?"

"Blaine!" Kurt's eyes snapped over to Casey, who made no visible acknowledgment to having heard what Blaine said. "Tact! Besides, this is Eastern Ohio; of _course _there aren't any heavily-wooded areas."

"_Shallow ditches, then_?"

The laugh Kurt emitted at this was high-pitched, and could be described as nothing short of mortified. Had Blaine lost his mind? Had Kurt done something to offend him? Had his boyfriend forgotten basic forms of etiquette and that Casey was, quite literally, _right there?_ "Don't be ridiculous, Blaine."

"_Landfill?_" Kurt's mouth dropped open in horror. "_Abandoned coal mine? No, wait, you wore your BOSS loafers today _…"

Kurt shot a strained smile at Casey's profile, who had yet to acknowledge him. "It must be all the CSI re-runs going to his head," he explained apologetically. "Sometimes his imagination gets the best of him. I told Wes and David not to let him near the TiVo, but do they listen?"

Kurt forced another uncomfortable laugh, then dove forward and began swiping at the button-riddled console, desperate to switch the speakerphone off. He really did not have the patience nor the wherewithal to deal with a wildly sobbing female twice in one afternoon, and though Casey appeared too lost in her own thoughts to listen to anything Blaine said, Kurt did not feel like leaving anything to chance. Blaine's gentlemanly dapper side had taken a lunch break at the worst possible moment, and Kurt was keen to get his idiotically oblivious boyfriend off the phone before any real damage was done.

Of course, the fact the entirety of the dashboard seemed to be nothing but buttons did absolute zilch to abate Kurt's sense of urgency. Cheesus, he had seen _sound boards _with less keys than this. The Batmobile would be an easier contraption to figure out. Honestly, what car needed climate-control, an in-vehicle hotspot … audio downloading? … _Hel-lo, massage feature _…

Blaine prattled on in the background as a thoroughly distracted Kurt became better acquainted with his seat. "_You're not expecting me to come up with a believable alibi, are you? Because if so I'm going to need at least four hours in Nordstrom with your credit card _…"

Kurt gave up his search with a wearied sigh, slumping back against his chair and suppressing the urge to rub his temples. "You _do _know what a Bluetooth is, right?"

"_All right, I'm sorry_." Blaine didn't sound sorry at all, but he did add a slightly more sincere, "_I'm sure you're perfectly safe in his company, Casey_," which was promptly ignored by the girl in question.

Kurt rolled his eyes at Blaine's antics, resigned to whatever damage his teasing may yield, and let out a relieved breath when he spotted a sign for an approaching coffee house. He quickly signaled right and pulled into the parking lot. "Well Blaine, as charmingly mortifying as this conversation has been, I've managed to find a coffee shop that is neither Canadian nor run by soulless green aprons, so if there's nothing else …"

"_There was a reason I called, actually_," Blaine's voice interrupted, sounding far too amused for Kurt's liking. "_I was wondering what you were planning to do about dinner_."

"Dinner? What are you talking abou – oh." He had forgotten it was Friday. Which meant dinner. Dinner with his family, including a father who did not take kindly to tardiness. Kurt resisted the urge to bang his head against the steering wheel; instead he slid his gaze over to the near catatonic girl next to him. He worried his lower lip between his teeth, then sighed. There was nothing for it. "Guess I'm going to be a little late. Maybe you could explain to my dad –"

"_Whoa, whoa, wait a moment_." And just like that, teasing-Blaine was gone, the ever preferred panicky version swiftly replacing him. "_You want me to go to your house? Alone_?"

"No, with a color guard," Kurt retorted. "_Yes, _alone."

There was the distinct sound of spluttering on the other end. "_But I don't – I'm not _… _can I do that_?"

Kurt shared a commiserating glance with Casey's ear. _Men_. "You were invited, weren't you? It's simple Blaine," Kurt continued, after he was met with more inarticulate spluttering, "you go ahead of me, explain to Dad and Carole that I'm indulging in a post-performance mocha with Casey, I'll drop her off at Dalton, pick up my car, and meet you there." He smacked his lips exasperatedly when he heard Blaine gulp audibly. "Don't be so dramatic. Spending ten minutes alone in my dad's presence isn't going to kill you. He _likes _you now, remember?"

"_He tolerated me because I was injured, and less of a threat to your virtue_."

Kurt snorted. "He likes you because he's finally realized you're about as threatening to my virtue as a newborn goat."

"… _Hey _–!"

"A very suave, charismatic newborn goat." Kurt grinned when he heard Blaine's huff. Killing the ignition to the car (with a _button_, how James Bond is _that_?) Kurt feigned crackling noises into the mic. "We're going through a tunnel, Blaine, I think I'm losing the signal!"

"_There _are _no tunnels in Findlay_."

God, the boy was obsessed with details today. "Impressive geography skills, honey, see you at home!"

"_Kurt, don't even try _–"

With a press of the red "End Call" button (though, if Kurt were being completely honest with himself, he wouldn't have been the least bit surprised if it turned out to be the "Seat Ejector" button instead), Blaine's voice cut out. Kurt smiled to himself, rather pleased with his own ingenuity, before letting out a surprised screech as his seat began sliding itself backwards.

"It's to make it easier to get out of the car," Casey explained in a dull tone; they were the first words she spoke since leaving the retirement home. They came out scratchy and raw. "It'll move back once the door shuts." She kept her focus resolutely out the window.

Kurt was clutching at his chest in an effort to prevent his heart from expelling itself all over the chrome. "That's … thoughtful of it." He shook his head and laughed weakly. "It doesn't transform into an Autobot on the weekends, too, does it?"

Casey shrugged woodenly. "It parallel parks itself."

"Seriously?" At Casey's jerky nod, Kurt let out an impressed whistle, eying the dash enviously. _My life is so deprived_.

Outside the car, the sky was turning darker, the soft light filtering through the windshield glimmering cheekily as it tinted to cooler shades, the sun beginning to sink below the clouds. Purples and oranges were edging out pinks and yellows when Casey finally moved; shifting in her chair, she sat up, wiped a hand across her damp eyes and glanced across the center console in time to watch Kurt pet a loving hand over the instrument panel.

"I wouldn't blame you, you know," she intoned heavily, and Kurt startled at the unexpected sound. He quickly snatched his hand back, looking up and blinking when he saw the intensity with which Casey was watching him.

"Um, come again?"

"If you wanted to bury me in a ditch," she clarified, her voice thick, harsher than Kurt had ever heard it due to all the crying from before. She waved a vague hand in the air. "If what Blaine was saying was true, I wouldn't blame you." She dipped her chin and trained swimming eyes on her knees. "I don't even know why you're tal-talking to me."

So she had been listening the whole time, then. Well. How awkward. "Casey …" When a quavering bottom lip and two fresh tear spots on the knees of her jeans were the only responses he received, Kurt sighed and clicked open his door. "Come on. Coffee first, talking after."

A short wait in line, two caramel mochas, and a painfully sincere "You two lovebirds enjoy!" later, Kurt and Casey were sitting down at a table across from each other, both of them gripping their drinks between their hands, one hiding her sniffles in her sleeve, the other trying very hard not to scold her for it.

"So …" Kurt rolled his fingers over the edge of his cup, taking comfort in the heat wafting up through the vented lid. This was better; this he could do. Coffee was good. Coffee was soothing. Coffee fixed everything. Coffee didn't cry uncontrollably against his lapels.

He took a sip, was pleasantly surprised by the drink only being half as terrible as he predicted, and cleared his throat, trying again. "So." He tilted his head to the side, drummed his fingers along the wood of the table, searching for a way to ease into the conversation that was tip-toeing obnoxiously around their table without sounding like an after-school television special. He never thought he would see the day, but he could really have used one of Miss Pillsbury's pun-riddled pamphlets right about now. His eyes took in the décor of the shop, all the dark woods and green leather accents, and inspiration struck. _You can never go wrong with interior design. _

He smiled benignly and indicated around them with his cup. "Cozy spot, hmm? Very Ivy League bookshop chic. I approve."

Kurt's plan was unsuccessful. Instead of the instantaneous bonding over button-tufted chaises and Roman blinds he had hoped would miraculously occur, Casey hummed noncommittally instead and brought her cup up to her mouth, her eyes downcast, her posture stooped over the table. Momentarily deterred, Kurt took advantage of the silence between them to study his coffee-going counterpart: pale cheeks, colorless expression, drawn mouth and tight shoulders, sitting as though gravity was giving its all to pull her through the floor – even the ever-present plaid skirt and poorly-tailored uniform blazer were missing, replaced instead by a pair of dark skinny jeans and a snug-fitted long-sleeved tee.

The girl sitting across from Kurt now looked the complete anti-thesis to the Casey Dewitt he had learned to abhor so passionately. And Kurt, who had spent countless hours villainizing everything about Casey from her flirting to her faux pas, didn't know quite what to do with that information.

Well, he certainly didn't want to sit here in uncomfortable silence for the next two hours, at least that he was sure about. Taking a calming pull from his coffee, he squared his shoulders, cleared his throat, and opened his mouth to speak – about what, he had no clue, he was planning on just winging it and hoping he wouldn't have to stoop to discussing the weather – when finally, Casey spoke.

"Is it obvious?" she blurted, her words high and forced, her eyes wide as she addressed her question to the grains in the wooden table.

Kurt stared at her, privately of the opinion things would proceed much more smoothly if _anything _the girl in front of him said was obvious. "I don't think I'm following you."

He watched her fingers tremble and clench together around her coffee cup. "Me," she choked out, pulling her gaze from the table and up to Kurt, looking lost and broken and so unnervingly familiar something in Kurt's chest twinged painfully at the sight. "Am I that obvious?"

Kurt shook his head slowly, not understanding.

"When you said those things to me. About h-how I treated the Warblers a-and – and Blaine, you seemed so … you said you could see – that I'm …" She gestured to herself with one of her hands, her expression pained, her posture so tense even _Kurt's _shoulders were beginning to ache. Her eyes darted around the nearly empty shop, and she sucked in a sharp breath through her nose. She looked back at Kurt, hunched down even lower in her chair. "How could you tell?"

This, Kurt thought dazedly, was exactly why he dated boys. His conversations with Blaine almost never required a translator.

"Because I've been trying," Casey continued before Kurt could figure out a response, her voice turning more shrill as the knuckles of the hand clutching her coffee cup whitened. "I've been trying really, really hard to not make it obvious, a-and I don't – don't know wh-what I'll do if everybody at school figures out that I … that I'm –" She pulled in another shuddering breath, pressed a hand against her eyes. "They can't. If they s-say anything … if my father finds – I just … they _can't_."

When it all finally clicked, Kurt felt like an idiot. Of course she would think – the way he had said it, the way he accused her – _of course_.

"Casey," he said firmly; he reached up and pried the hand away from her eyes, settling it on the table and squeezing her fingers briefly before letting go. "No one else knows, all right? _Trust me_," he added, when Casey began shaking her head back and forth silently, her expression nothing short of panicked, "you're very – ah, _convincing _to the contrary."

"But," Casey sniffed tremulously, and Kurt bit his tongue as she wiped at her nose with her sleeve again, "but then – how did _you _know …?"

Kurt's fingers, which had been toying absently with the rim of his cup, fumbled and nearly spilled his coffee. "Call it a hunch," he said evasively, pulling his hands into the safety of his lap and hoping she wouldn't delve for more information. He had a feeling that the truth – _I had no idea you're a total closet case, I just thought you were a heartless man-eater looking to add my boyfriend as another notch on her bedpost _– would do nothing to help keep Casey's looming mental breakdown at bay.

And besides, this way made him seem far less psycho-jealous boyfriend, and much more fashion-savvy Sherlock. Without the violin. And fabulous hat.

"I can't believe this is happening." The head shaking had started again, Casey's movements jerky and stuttered as she clenched and unclenched her fingers from her coffee cup, her eyes darting to the sides, the ceiling, the table. "None of this should be … I tried, I tried _so hard _not to … but they – they didn't c-care, they never _listened, _and now I'm st-stuck here, and I'm all al-alone and no one –" She cut off on a sob, her eyes swimming, the cup in her hand shaking so hard caramel-colored liquid was sloshing over the top and dripping onto her fingers.

"Hey." Kurt hastened to pull the cup away from the hysterical girl before she burned herself, trying to keep his movements slow and deliberate, firm in his belief that one wrong move on his part would have Casey losing her head like a startled horse. She truly looked as though she was one loud sound away from high-tailing it out the coffee shop Roadrunner-style, and Kurt knew he was far from equipped to deal with a flight scenario. He'd worn the wrong shoes, for one thing.

Other patrons in the store were beginning to stare as Casey's sobs became more labored. Kurt tugged a handkerchief out of his pocket and handed it to Casey, who hesitated before accepting it, her wet eyes wide and unsure. He smiled reassuringly. "Why don't you start from the beginning?"

Casey sniffled and dabbed delicately under her eyes. When she was done, she fiddled with the fabric, her gaze dropped to her fingers. "Why are you being so nice to me?"

"I'm planning to use every second of this conversation against you at some point," Kurt dead-panned, lilting the edges of his mouth into a soft smile when Casey hiccuped and blinked her surprise. "Let's just say I've been where you are, and would have really appreciated having someone to let it all out to." He nudged her foot under the table. "You ready to talk?"

Casey pulled in a shaky breath. Exhaled slowly. "I don't really know where to start," she admitted, and Kurt watched as she folded her hands on the tabletop and began twisting the handkerchief between them anxiously.

"Well, explaining why you've been chasing after the Dalton boys like it's going out of style would be a good place to start," Kurt suggested dryly. He promptly regretted it when Casey's lip began trembling again. "Sorry. That was … harsh."

But Casey was shaking her head. "No, no, you're right. It's stupid." She sniffed, blew her nose into the handkerchief, shook her head again. "_I've _been stupid. And unfair. And really, really horrible. God," she laughed harshly, her eyes tipping up toward the ceiling, "I'm a real piece of work, aren't I? It's a wonder you haven't pushed me out a window yet."

_Oh hell, she hasn't found my blog, has she_? "I'm a staunch believer in keeping violence out of schools. Hugs, not drugs, and all that." When Casey lowered her eyes back to him, Kurt cleared his throat and busied himself with sipping his drink. _Please don't ask me for a hug_.

"You can say it, you know." Kurt tilted his chin up questioningly. "That you hate me. I can take it." Casey leaned back in her chair, and spread her arms open, as though inviting Kurt's caustic wit to have at it. She smiled at him, a shadowed, self-deprecating twitch of her lips. "My opinion of myself isn't exactly at a high point right now, there's not much you can say that could make it worse."

What was this, Make Kurt Feel as Awkward as Possible Day? Were Blaine and Casey in cahoots, or something?

"I don't hate you." The denial was feeble and blatantly insincere to Kurt's own ears, and he squirmed slightly in his seat when Casey continued to stare. "Hate is such a … _strong _word," he hedged. Just how obvious would it be if he averted his eyes and began tugging uncomfortably on his collar? Really obvious? Well, too late now …

"Blaine's right: you're a terrible liar."

_That _ruffled some feathers. "He said that, hmm?" Kurt folded his arms, unimpressed. "And just what else does Mr. _only suffers from seasonal allergies whenever _The Notebook _is on _have to say about – you know what, never mind." He forced himself to stop, and took in a deep, calming breath. Keep on track, he reminded himself. Tangents only ever led to trouble; particularly for the emotionally fragile and/or late-for-family-night-dinner crowd. "We're here to talk about your newly-developed habit of coming out to people who yell profanities at you, not my boyfriend and the wondrously obtuse things he says."

For a long moment, Casey stared. Fiddled with the handkerchief in her hands. Opened her mouth, choked on nothing, closed her eyes. Took a deep breath, let it out slowly. Visibly worked up her nerve, tried again. "My father."

An eyebrow inched up towards Kurt's hairline. "Your father made you come out?"

"No. Y-yes. I mean …" She shook her head, frustrated. Kurt could see she was struggling; her lips were forming the syllables, she was sucking in gulps of air to help, but the words weren't coming out, as though they were lodging themselves somewhere between her brain and her mouth. "He's the … the reason, I guess," she finally managed to force out. "For all – this."

She spoke with her hands, an encompassing gesticulation that indicated the entirety of the coffee shop, which Kurt darted his gaze around, feeling as confused as ever.

"He's the reason for … Findlay?"

It was an irrefutable fact that Kurt would never understand the appeal of women. As friends they were terrific, but constantly dealing with their hysterics, moments of inarticulate rambling and – _oh hell no, she did _not _just give me a _look _– _was downright _stressful_. It pained him to remember those dark days when he legitimately believed he could survive pretending to date Brittany.

"I meant _all _of this." She made the sweeping gesture again. "Me, being in Ohio. Going to Dalton. Chase – chasing all the Warblers. It's all thanks to him." She dropped her eyes back to the table, her voice pitching low and dripping in poorly concealed bitterness. "Daddy and his complete disgust at having a dyke for a daughter."

Kurt flinched. Whether at _that word _or the cold and anguished fury hidden behind it, he wasn't entirely sure. Whatever it was, it had fallen leaden into his stomach and was making camp there.

He tried to play it casual as he took another sip of his now tepid drink. "Coming-out horror story, huh?"

Casey actually snorted at this, gifting Kurt with a look that made it perfectly clear just how inane she found his question to be. "Are you kidding me? You think I actually came out to my family?" She scoffed and rolled her eyes skyward. "Think what you want about me, Kurt, but I'm not stupid. Well, no," she corrected herself, eyes still on the ceiling, "that's not true. Acknowledging my 'deviant urges' and writing them all down for my nosy sister to find was pretty damn stupid of me, now I think about it."

"Wait, you were outed by your sister?" It was a day of many firsts for Kurt. Sharing (grudging) compassion for Casey, then pity, and now anger on her behalf – had he woken up this morning on the wrong side of a time warp?

"Charlotte and I have always had a strained relationship," Casey explained, her expression twisting unpleasantly. "She was the older, prettier sister; I was the smarter, precocious baby of the family. All through our childhood we were pitted against each other." She affected a mocking, simpering tone. "_Look how beautiful your older sister is, Casey, don't you wish you could be just like her? _and _my, my, Lottie, darling little Casey's grades are putting yours to shame. _It was rough growing up like that, being constantly compared to her, feeling as though I had to _compete _for my parents' affection.

"It got worse as we got older. Lottie didn't like how I constantly stole our parents' attention away from her; I couldn't stand how two-faced and unpleasant she was to me. So when I mentioned in my toast at our brother's engagement party that Lottie's husband looked as though his family tree branched off in one direction …" Casey trailed off and shrugged a shoulder. "Well, she won that round."

There was a small part of Kurt – a very tiny, quiet, slightly ashamed part of him – that was mentally scribbling down that family tree zinger for future use.

The rest of him was properly horrified.

"She outed you at your brother's engagement party?"

Casey nodded, her fingers now working furiously at a frayed end of Kurt's handkerchief. "All our family and closest friends were there. People who _knew _me, had been there my whole life: neighbors, my old teachers – even the mayor." She sighed, and Kurt saw something painful flicker within her gaze. "Everybody who was anybody was there celebrating Carter's impending nuptials, and she _told _them. Right in the middle of the party. In front of God and everybody she whipped out my diary and handed it to my mother, bookmarked and all."

"And they saw everything?" Unbeknownst to him, Kurt had leaned forward across the table, coffee and fellow patrons completely forgotten, wholly absorbed in Casey's story. "You wrote in there about being …?"

"I don't even remember what I wrote," Casey admitted quietly. "The ramblings of a confused and scared thirteen-year-old girl, I guess. It's not like it was x-rated material, or anything. I was too … too ashamed of being different to ever do anything about what I was feeling." A tremor worked its way through Casey's shoulders. She sighed, and scrubbed a hand through her hair. "It was mostly questions, endless pleas, forbidden fantasies about Emmy Layton's smile or Miss Becker's _ridiculously _toned legs – everything I was too afraid to admit aloud, to myself or to others, I wrote in there. All my inner-most, _private _thoughts, and my parents read them."

She choked out a laugh then, the sound of it almost painful, and rubbed her hands over her eyes. "You should've seen their faces, Kurt," she spoke into her palms. "You'd think they read my gruesome confession to murdering the gardener, the way they were looking at me. Like I was some deranged, dangerous stranger who'd gate-crashed their party. Like they didn't even _know me_."

She lowered her hands, and her eyes flashed. "And it's not like I actually acted on any of those urges, either," she hissed across the table, and Kurt was surprised by how furious she suddenly sounded. "I was a _good girl_, Kurt. A good, Southern, _Christian _girl." A hand fumbled at the neckline of her shirt and pulled out a delicate silver necklace, held out the simple little cross dangling from the chain so Kurt could see. "I followed all the rules, was the perfect daughter. I attended church and said my prayers and kept my outfits modest. I did my hair the way my mama wanted me to, batted my eyes just like Lottie did whenever a cute boy walked by. I did well in school, was adored by the patrons of the town. I said all the right things at the dinner parties and fundraisers and family gatherings, parroted back whatever views my father held, no matter how bigoted or vitriolic or – or _hurtful _they were … I was a _good girl_." Voice cracking, she closed her eyes, slumping back in her chair.

"I was a good daughter," she muttered miserably at the table. "A good daughter who laughed at her father's homophobic jokes and made a few of her own –" her face twisted with repulsion at the shameful memory – "because she knew what was expected of her, what would happen if Hoyt and Evelyn Dewitt ever found out they had a _gay _hiding in the family, and was more than prepared to keep those … those _thoughts _to herself and marry the first blue-blooded bozo her daddy approved."

Kurt stared dumbly as Casey fell silent. It was official: he was never complaining about sitting through football games with his dad again. Sometimes he took for granted that, flannel and bad jokes aside, his dad was pretty damn awesome, and had done his best to ensure Kurt felt supported and loved during every step of his own coming-out story. In fact Burt had done such a good job at being his dad that it was still a shock to Kurt, to know that not every other gay kid was as lucky as he was, didn't have parents who would buy them Maria bonnets and take them to the Nutcracker and push a football player up against a wall to defend them. It was sobering to remember the rest of the world didn't work the way Burt Hummel did, and that he, Kurt, could have had it so much worse.

Kurt had never been so anxious to get home for Friday night family dinner before in his _life_.

But Casey was still sitting across from him, looking wrecked and miserable, as though her entire world had been pulled out from under her feet like a cheap rug, and there were parts of her past behavior that had yet to be explained. "So, your parents found out, and I'm guessing they weren't exactly thrilled?"

Casey shook her head, her teeth biting furiously into her lower lip. "I've never seen my mother cry like that before," she admitted, her own tears spilling over her cheeks. "She sat there, begging me to deny it, to say Lottie was just pulling one of her mean pranks, that there was no way a child of hers would wind up so _diseased_."

That word, and the way Casey spat it out, made Kurt's skin crawl. "And … your dad?"

Another snort. "My father didn't say anything. Wouldn't even look at me. He sent me to my room for the rest of the night, and by morning my bags were packed, and I was on a plane to Columbus."

"Just like that? He didn't even let you explain?"

"Kurt, my father didn't care about an explanation," Casey said, a bitter laugh escaping when she saw Kurt's bemused expression. "The damage had already been done. It didn't matter if I confirmed, denied, or pleaded temporary insanity to him. Charlotte _outed _me, Kurt. In front of _everybody_. Daddy is a proud, stoic, God fearing man. I brought immorality, and sin, and _filth _into his house. I slandered the family name, disrespected him under his own roof, and what's worse I embarrassed him in front of the entire town." She held out her hands in an almost helpless gesture. "There's no explaining myself out of that one."

Kurt could not fathom why he was the only one sitting at the table who was spluttering with indignant rage. Could not grasp how Casey sounded so resigned, so _accepting _of what she had told him; of what had happened to her, how she'd been treated by her own family. "So he sent you to Dalton, just like that."

"Well, not _just _like that." A corner of Casey's mouth twitched upward. "Turns out it's not that easy convincing Dalton's board of directors to allow a girl into their school."

"What d'you mean?"

"You know that addition they're adding onto the library?" At Kurt's hesitant nod, Casey continued, "Consider that my non-refundable tuition deposit."

_Holy fathers of a puppy-sweatered Berry … _Kurt knew Casey came from money, the weirdly polite car he was just groped by was proof of that, but he'd had no _idea _– "Your dad added an entire _wing _onto our school's library, just to get you to come here?" His eyes nearly bugged out his head at Casey's affirmation_. _"_Why_?"

Another teary eye roll. "Well, isn't it obvious? What better way to scare the girl-loving out of your daughter than to dump her in the middle of Nowhere, Ohio, completely isolated from her friends and family, and surrounded by hordes of sexually-repressed prep school boys?"

"Is it working?" Kurt asked, his thoughts straying over the past few weeks, of Casey flirting and coquetting her way through the Warblers, of making Kurt see red whenever she interacted with Blaine.

Casey studied Kurt for a long moment, her teeth almost chewing a hole through her lip, before she dropped her gaze to her hands. "No," she whispered to her fingers, her voice small, hopeless. She shook her head and closed her eyes tightly. "No, it's not working."

"But then, _why_?" Kurt was confused, and frustrated, and beginning to grow impatient. There was still so much about Casey he didn't understand, _couldn't _understand. "I get it why you wouldn't say anything to anyone –" He thought about being in her position, of their roles being reversed, of him stuck in a school like Crawford, and he shuddered dramatically – "I really do, but why all the flirting? Why all the coy looks, soft touches, and that homicidal thought-inducing giggle?"

Casey's brow furrowed. "You really hate my laugh that much?"

"Me and small dogs cower whenever it draws near," Kurt retorted, "and you're evading my question."

Another twisted look, this one aimed at her hands, and then a sullen mumble, forced out through trembling lips: "Because."

"Because?" Oh yes, Kurt was definitely starting to feel irritated now. He crossed his arms and arched an eyebrow. "That's the best you've got? _Because_? Casey, you've been _toying _with the Warblers for weeks –"

"I know –"

"– acting cute, stringing them all along –"

"I _know _that, Kurt, _God _…"

"– building them up, making them think they've got a chance, then breaking their feeble little hearts one by one –"

"Jesus, Hummel, don't hold back or anything _–_"

"– wheedling your way between friends, crowding yourself into _relationships_, and the best you've got is '_because_' …"

"I don't have a _choice_, all right?" Casey finally snapped, pulling up her head and glaring Kurt into silence. "I _don't_. I wish I did, I wish with everything I had that I could just get through my last few years of high school without having to deal with any of this – this absolute _mess _my life's become, but I can't. I _can't_." She tangled the fingers of both hands into her hair, knotting them together and tugging hard. "I can't anger him any more, Kurt. I'm nothing without my family's money; I _have _nothing. If he finds out – if the dean calls, or-or someone else sees, and he finds out … I'm done. My life is _done_."

Large, desperate tears were splashing onto the table between her elbows as Casey began to really lose it, and Kurt found himself stuck to his chair, immobilized by confusion and alarm.

"I've got two years of high school left," Casey whimpered, her eyes squeezing shut, the hands buried in her hair shaking her head back and forth weakly. "If my father doesn't think Dalton's working, if … if I don't convince him that I – that I'm t-trying to … that I'm _fixing _myself, then he'll disown me." Her voice wavered and hitched, terrified, on the words. "He'll pull me out of Dalton, send me overseas, maybe even th-throw me into the streets, or-or into one of those _camps _and I _can't _–" She pulled in a heaving breath through her nose, opened her eyes and gazed imploring up at Kurt, begging for him to understand. "Two years. I just have to make it two years, but Dalton's my last chance. If I don't convince someone to be my boyfriend by the time my parents come to pick me up for my brother's wedding …" She trailed off, left her statement hanging, but Kurt didn't need her to finish it.

Finally, Kurt was beginning to understand. He didn't know what she had been through, couldn't wrap his mind around how she had lived sixteen years with such a man for a father, and all that _certainly _did not mean he agreed with her actions regarding his friends, but still … he understood that she felt trapped, that she was scared and alone and terrified for her future, and for him, that was enough.

"So, all those dates." Casey lifted her eyes up to Kurt's, let out a stuttering breath. "You tried to lie to them, but …"

"They were all such nice guys, I just – I couldn't do it," Casey finished pathetically. "I thought I could pretend, just until the wedding, just long enough for my parents to think I was g-getting _better _or whatever, but –" She sniffled, brushed the handkerchief across her cheeks and under her nose. "I couldn't lie to them. I was too afraid to admit what I was, but I couldn't lead any of them on, so I'd … I'd break it off after the first date, and try to find someone who was less …"

"Endearing?" Kurt guessed; he smiled pityingly when she nodded. "Honey, the Warblers are all a bunch of singing teddy bears. You would've had better luck with the lacrosse team."

This, surprising enough, managed to squeak a laugh out of Casey. "Yeah," she admitted with a tremulous smile, "I figured that one out after Warbler number six."

"Jeff?"

"No, Richard."

"Ah." Kurt nodded in understanding. Richard was like the straight version of Blaine; _no _girl could manipulate that guy without selling their soul first.

The two of them lapsed into silence, the soft murmuring and clinking of the espresso machine behind them the only sounds to pass over their table. Kurt was studying Casey closely, watching as she swirled her fingers absent-mindedly over the rim of her barely-touched drink, her eyes focused on nothing, lost as she was in her own thoughts.

"Can I ask you a question?" Kurt found himself asking, his eyes following the movements of her hand, which twitched barely noticeably before withdrawing away from the cup and back under the table. Catching sight of her wordless nod, he said, "Why did you cling so much to Blaine?"

"Honestly?" Casey shrugged her shoulders lightly. "He's nice. He's friendly and unassuming, and is one of the only guys in that entire school I feel comfortable around." She eyed Kurt with something akin to amusement. Or at least, it would have been amusement, if it weren't for the tears still glistening along her eyelashes. "On that first day, when he talked my ear off about a certain gorgeous boyfriend who was perfect, and wonderful, and would just 'absolutely _love _me', I thought the two of you could be my, I don't know, my _gay allies _or something." She shook her head at her own silliness, and let out a brusque laugh. "Of course, thirty seconds into meeting me, you decided I was undesirable number one, and after that, well – your indignant faces and creative epithets for me became something of my entertainment during the day. I couldn't resist egging you on a bit."

This declaration left Kurt properly stunned. All that time, all those winks and innuendos and infuriating little comments, and all Casey had been trying to do was _rile _him up?

Inexplicably, Kurt's mouth pulled up into an impressed, almost _proud_, smile. _That unfashionable little genius is a female me_.

* * *

><p>They were back in Casey's car, music playing low and an almost companionable silence stretched out between them as they drove down the I-75, when Kurt asked his next question.<p>

"So, when exactly is your brother's wedding?"

"Next weekend," Casey said, arms crossed over her stomach and eyes closed. She looked drawn out and exhausted but also, strangely enough, calm. "Why?"

Kurt hummed. "Just wondering." He eyed the signs overhead. "You still have time to find someone, you know, if you applied your feminine appeal and really worked on your accessorizing abilities–"

But Casey was shaking her head in the negative. "I'm giving up on that plan," she sighed, sounding tired and defeated. "I can't drag some unwitting guy into my mess of a life, especially not one of the Warblers. No, I'll think of something else, fake an illness or something." She laughed derisively. "I'm getting pretty good at faking things, as you're aware."

Kurt hesitated for a breath, thought _To hell with it__,_ and dove right in. "Well, there _is _one thing we could do."

"Oh, really?" was her skeptical reply. "And what would that be?"

Kurt pondered for a second, debated internally for less than that, before signaling to the right, and taking the split-off that would by-pass Westerville and instead lead them straight into Lima.

Casey cracked open an eye, took in their surroundings, and sat up straight in her seat. "Where're we going?"

Kurt ignored her question, countering it with one of his own. "So, your parents' prerequisites for this hypothetical boyfriend of yours," he began, in a would-be casual tone that was belied by the small smirk that was beginning to creep across his features, "they wouldn't include a height limit, would they?"

* * *

><p><strong>AN2: **Whoo. Angsty, huh? I promise the next chapter is _much _more light-hearted and fun, and there'll be a lot more cutesy Kurt and Blaine in that one, too. Seriously. My teeth are aching just thinking about the scenes I've already written.

If you can, take some time out and review! Or stop by my tumblr (stoofinlunacy . tumblr . com) and say hello!

Till next time!


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